


Kamelie Liebt Mich

by Solitary_Shadow



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Angst, Early Rammstein, Hints of Paul/Flake, Hints of Till/Flake, Hints of Till/Richard, Language of Flowers, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Political Allusions, Slash, philosophical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-10 00:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 37,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Shadow/pseuds/Solitary_Shadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Half the time, he's there at band practice, exquisite fingers flawless over the keyboards. Half the time, he's working as a florist, hands concealed under unwieldy gloves. Flake is an overt realist and remains only partially committed to the fledgling band; Richard is an overt perfectionist and seeks to complete the puzzle. [An interpretation of Du Riechst So Gut '95. Set through late 1994-mid 1995. Richard/Flake, maybe preslash Till/Richard and Till/Flake and Paul/Flake depending on how much you like to read into things. Read all warnings.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 01

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mitternacht](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitternacht/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer: I do not know any of the members of Rammstein, this is strictly a work of fiction and I do not profit from nor claim to represent true aspects of their lives in this story.**
> 
> **Warnings:** Personally interpreted past of the band, slash, slashy overtones between people who otherwise aren't more than friends, post-1989 German politics, mild angst, Richard navelgazing, a philosophical conversation or two. Literary references. Flower meanings are sprinkled liberally through the fic and are explained. I would put 'spoilers', but that would be meaningless as DRSG'95 isn't really a music video that you can 'spoil'. Not horrifying or absurdist - it might even be feel-good. 
> 
> Written for [kamisied](http://kamisied.deviantart.com/) on DA, in celebration of her fic ['Feuer und Wasser'](http://kamisied.deviantart.com/art/Feuer-und-Wasser-chapter-1-395567722).

**Kamelie Liebt Mich (01) - A Rammstein Fanfiction**  
  
Pairing: Richard/Flake  
  
\--------------------------------  
  
Winter has kissed the streets of Berlin thoroughly, sugary frost glazing the windows and covering the pavement in a pale haphazard mosaic. It is the 26th of December, and in the post-Christmas cheer, Richard can think of no better way to prepare for the next year than to invite his first guest to his new apartment. It has taken him a while, but he finally has his own place, a clean and modest studio with few plain but endearing pieces of furniture. It suns well and everything is in working order, and the rent isn't at all awful. Right now he is tidying the cushions on his couch - a classic silvery-grey one with paisley markings left over by the previous tenant, which he actually likes enough that he won't replace it - and when he's done, he straightens up, dusting his hands and looking at the surroundings with a fond smile on his face.  
  
It's still somewhat bare, but that will be amended shortly, and most importantly of all - it is all his. He's proud enough of that. Richard walks over to the kitchen and is just taking out a bottle of wine when the doorbell rings. "Risch!" a jovial voice calls from outside. "it's me! _Prosit Neujahr!_ "  
  
" _Ich komme sofort_!" he hollers, grabs the bottle, and hastily pushes it onto the counter before rushing towards the door. When the guitarist looks through the peephole, he sees Olli standing there, with a red-and-green festive bouquet in hand and a grin on his face. He's wearing a peacoat and a brown tartan scarf, looking smart and almost academic; a familiar sight.  
  
" _Gesundes neues Jahr_ , yourself," Richard exclaims as he opens the door; the younger man immediately takes a step inside and puts the bouquet by the side before enveloping him in a tight hug. They're both laughing, always happy to be in each other's company. "though it's a week early! Thank you for coming, Olli - _Gott_ , what beautiful flowers."  
  
"They are, aren't they? Even I say so myself. To brighten up your place a little."  
  
"And they will, let me take those - come in, do come in, you must be absolutely freezing."  
  
Olli is only too happy to do so; he hands over the bouquet to Richard and steps inside. "Nice place you've got here," the younger man compliments as he shuts the door behind him, looking around as he takes off his scarf and folds it neatly, putting it aside. "it's a good size for yourself, a bit of colour and it's going to look marvellous. Papa sends his congratulations, too."  
  
"Your father does?" Richard teases fondly, grinning at the other's shy blush. Olli's always had a good relationship with his family, he had no trouble in the GDR and his parents have been nothing but supportive all his life; he's also the youngest in this new band, being just over twenty-three and a half years old, and he's not _that_ used to being independent yet. It's quite endearing. "I appreciate it very much, if you could send him my thanks. Can I get you anything to drink?"  
  
"I will. Spezi, if you have it. I'm fine with coffee or tea otherwise."  
  
The guitarist holds back another smile. Of course. Olli doesn't usually drink alcohol; he's already stocked up on juices and other non-alcoholic drinks just in case. Before this apartment, he shared another flat with Olli and Schneider, so he knows both of their tastes very well. He heads over to the kitchen to pour them both a glass of Spezi, which is accepted happily by the bassist, and bids that he sits down before tending to the bouquet. It really is very pretty, mixed red gerberas and carnations (both blossoms and buds) with frosted-evergreen branches and two pinecones painted gold as decorations, topped off with with one ripe, dark-red rose. The scent is sweet and even slightly spicy from the evergreens, but it's not overwhelming in the slightest. Whilst he's never been one for having flowers in his house, he does have a solid black glass vase lying around, so he fills that up and unwraps the bouquet to place inside. There is a small green plastic vial, reminiscent of a tiny eye-dropper bottle, that's attached to the stems; blinking in confusion, he frees it and holds it up. "What's this? Do you know?  
  
"Apparently that's flower food. To make it last longer."  
  
"Ah, that would make sense," Richard says, and squeezes the liquid inside it into the water before placing the flowers carefully inside the vase. After that, he crosses the living room with the vase, places on the spacious windowsill, stands back and admires the arrangement. "there. That's a very pretty bouquet. But Olli, I really hope that it didn't cost you a fortune."  
  
Olli shakes his head. "Oh, no, Risch. The individual flowers themselves were a good price, Flake did the arrangement for me afterwards and didn't charge for it."  
  
"You picked out the flowers yourself? You've-" then it hits him. "-wait, _Flake? Our_ Flake? Christian Lorenz?"  
  
"The one and only. What with him working at a florist's and all," the bassist takes another sip, his voice perfectly casual; but then he glances at Richard and sees the other's thunderstruck expression, and begins to look slightly uneasy. "... you didn't know?"  
  
"... No. I didn't. This is news to me. Since _when_?"  
  
The bouquet was so elegantly tied that he can't imagine that Flake's employment has been in very recent times. Flower arranging takes time and skills to master, it's not something he could have just made up on the spot. Olli thinks about the question for a second. "... Since... since mid-October, I think? I remember him being there on the ninth of November, he was helping with a wreath to commemorate the Wall coming down. I thought you knew. Everyone else does."  
  
Another disturbing revelation. He's never heard anything about it from any of his bandmates; surely it must have been name-dropped even once, and Richard's been in every single band session so far. There is no way he was absent to hear any mention of Flake's job. "But I've never heard anyone talking about it. _Gott_. I just... _what_?"  
  
The bassist is looking increasingly troubled. "... I don't think we ever talked about it because... well... it's not relevant to our work. I heard it from Paul first, and even then it was just a single sentence he said about 'Flake working at a florist's in his spare time', and I just accepted it. I'd almost forgotten about that completely until I was shopping around for flowers."  
  
"So you didn't hear it directly from him either? That's insane. How exactly does Flake communicate _anything_ to other people?"  
  
"Well, there's no point in getting all confrontational over it, Risch. That's just silly. He's not exactly _skipping_ band practice for his work, is he?"  
  
Richard opens his mouth to retort, but then thinks about it a little. "Well..." a quick search through his recent memories reveal that Flake has been in attendance for as long as he can remember. "... no. He's not. He _has_ been really good about that, despite thinking that Rammstein was stupid not a few months ago."  
  
"There you go, then. I agree that Flake's - um - not the best at communicating, but anything we urgently need to know for the band, he's always provided. I think he's taking the responsibilities in the band just as seriously, if not more, if that reassures you, Risch," the bassist swirls what's left of his drink in his glass, frowning thoughtfully. Faint lines crease across his forehead, then fade away, smooth as ever. "he's a good guy. Things will work themselves out. We're all adults, after all."  
  
"True. That's all right, then, I suppose. I was just surprised."  
  
They fall into a comfortable silence at that point, sipping their drinks and staring at the view outside. While Olli seems to be content with leaving the subject be, however, the older man is less so; as founder of the band, this is not a matter to just shrug off and hope that it'll get better. Especially considering what he _does_ know of the keyboardist. He envisions Flake in his head and inwardly groans, mildly exasperated.  
  
Truth be told, Richard has never known quite _what_ to make of Flake. He knows that the other is seven months older than he, that he's been a pianist/keyboardist since he was young, and that he used to be in Feeling B, a GDR punk band, from when he was sixteen years old. Flake wears glasses, is tall and very thin, and apparently now works frequent shifts at a florist's shop when he's not participating in the band. All these are objective facts, but they're also completely useless in helping Richard determine his rather eccentric character. The guitarist isn't exactly close to him nor does he feel very comfortable around him, that's for certain. Flake still stubbornly counts with ' _zwo_ ' instead of ' _zwei_ ' and in true East Berliner fashion pronounces _'auch_ ' as ' _och_ ' and ' _ich'_ as ' _ikh_ ' - and the worst of all (in the guitarist's perspective), he _romanticizes_ the now-faded GDR. This period of their past is the last thing that Richard wants to revisit any time soon. Conflict is inevitable. He does hold some token respect for the older man for having been in Feeling B, and arguably having Flake around is a good way to distinguish their sound from that of other bands. But that aside, they don't really connect. Without context, one wouldn't even think that he and Flake _knew_ each other from Adam himself, if not for the fact that they still refer to each other with ' _du_ '. At least they have that.  
  
Richard lets out a 'hmm' and sets down his Spezi.  
Olli was right. It _is_ a bit silly, when it comes down to it, but not in the way the bassist meant.  
  
"Say," he turns to the younger man. Olli looks over, still in the middle of finishing his glass. "that shop Flake works in... do you know where it is? Is it far?"  
  
"Not horribly. Why, though?"  
  
"Can you give me directions to the place? Flake aside, these are very good quality flowers. Most flower shops near here closed down a while ago, I could do with knowing another one," this is actually true. Closed-down and dilapidated remains of old florist shops, some with their signs still up, can be found amidst the few blocks near his apartment. He actually suspects that they're remains from the economic crisis, but Olli doesn't know that and he's not one hundred percent sure himself. The bassist nods and gestures for a pen and paper; Richard gets up and hurries over to his room for a notebook, and the younger man takes it with a thanks. He's just about to begin writing when he pauses, looking slightly troubled. "what's wrong?"  
  
"... You're not going to _fight_ with Flake or anything, right?"  
  
Richard has to acknowledge it; the younger man is very perceptive. But even he knows not to directly engage someone (or more accurately, _anyone_ ) in confrontation without good reason. So far, Flake working a second job there is slightly troubling at worst, certainly nothing to start a fight over. "Don't you worry about it, Olli," Richard smiles, and squeezes his shoulder reassuringly. "that's not going to happen."  
  
\-----  
  
The shop is located around twenty minutes from his apartment. It's located out of the way, clean, and the decorations are plain but well-fitting; there's some tinsel still trailing from hanging baskets, left over from Christmas. Richard briefly wonders if he's found the right place, even when he's standing right in front of terracotta pots and crates of flowers, because the shop is so quiet and it doesn't look like anyone is inside. He glances down at the note he's holding, the address of the shop and the directions written clearly in Olli's beautiful handwriting - no, he's definitely at the right place. Figuring that he might as well check it out, he cautiously pushes the door open, hearing the high-pitched tinkling of the chime as he steps into the shop and lets the door swing shut behind him.  
  
 _"Hallo?"  
_  
There is no response. But he called so quietly to begin with, anyway. He takes a breath and almost coughs, the mingled smell of over a dozen kinds of flowers hitting him all at once; it's not unpleasant, but so overwhelming and concentrated that he can't help but reel back from it. It doesn't take long for him to recover, though, and he carries on, passing multiple flowerpots and bouquets ready-made for certain occasions on display. The shop is decorated very simply, with soft-beige walls and textured slate flooring. It's also larger than expected, consisting mostly of a large room with rows of display tables, a passage cutting through the middle and across to the back of the shop. There is a counter near the entrance, long and granite-topped with a corner that lifts up, and a small office with its door ajar is behind it. Said office is empty, and no one is at the register.  
  
But when Richard heads further in, he sees that there is a small alcove at the back of the room that was out of sight before, stocked entirely with various types and colours of roses. No other flowers are on display in that particular area. Someone with dark-blond hair is standing there, leaning over a large glass vase filled with red roses; he measures out a capful of clear liquid from an unlabeled bottle, pours it into the water, and swirls it around briefly with what appears to be a copper rod before standing back up.  
  
There is no one else in the shop. He's found his target.  
  
" _Du!_ " he calls out. The man stops in his tracks as soon as he hears - but instead of responding to Richard, he puts down the bottle first, then the copper rod, and only then does he turn around to face him. He's dressed in a plain black sweater and a white collared shirt beneath it, along with black trousers and shoes, which might have been a perfectly sharp and professional look for some - but he doesn't exactly _fill out_ his clothes, being too skinny and tall, making him more look slightly out of place. Thankfully, this arrangement isn't actually a required uniform, though Richard doesn't know that just yet. The man's gaze is stoic behind the glasses that he wears. " _guten Tag, Flake!_ "  
  
Flake looks at him impassively. He raises his hand - covered with gardening gloves - and takes off his glasses, staring ahead of him blankly as he polishes them briefly on his sweater, and puts them back on. It's only then he finally speaks, his tone disinterested and flat: "Was it you?"  
  
"Was it me what?"  
  
"Who wrote _'come to the Rammstein rehearsal_ ' on my door last night," Flake's voice is devoid of anger, but he doesn't sound amused, either. "I'll have you know that Paul and I _live together_. I get enough reminders from him, thank you very much."  
  
"What? No," the guitarist laughs; Flake lives several U-Bahn stations away from him, it's a long way to go to just for what amounts to graffiti. "not that I don't agree that you should be there, you _really_ ought to be - but I stayed home yesterday. Olli can back me up, he and I were drinking together for all that time. Unless you're suggesting that I can be in two places in Berlin at once-" he pauses, having a two-second flashback to the October of 1989, where after a truly ridiculous journey he indeed had ended up in two different sides of Berlin. "- you'd, ah, you'd be best off asking someone else."  
  
The older man considers this for a moment, though his expression remains stoic. "It didn't _look_ like Paul's handwriting," he muses, more to himself than Richard, putting the bottle down for a moment to nudge a pot into position. "... but it could be Christoph. Or Paul putting in effort. _Ja._ Perhaps," he nods to himself, mildly satisfied with his conclusion, and looks over at the younger man. "... either way, the message was received and understood. So. What _are_ you here for?"  
  
Richard makes a mental note to speak to the rest of his bandmates later and tell them to lay off writing things on Flake's door. "Olli told me about you working here. Seemed like I was the last person to know. Probably the last person to drop in and say hello, too, no doubt. I just wanted to fix that."  
  
"You're the first who came in here just for that purpose," is the cool response. "I try not to mix between my jobs and personal life, _danke_."  
  
 _Yeah, thanks for that. A 'hello' in return would have been nice too. Goddamn it, Flake.  
_  
Now the guitarist can't help but feel a little ruffled. "... So you arranged a free bouquet for Olli? He gave that to me as a housewarming gift yesterday, you know, that's how I found out."  
  
"Ah, that was meant for you?" the keyboardist raises an eyebrow, but nods thoughtfully nonetheless. He doesn't seem at all affected. "I didn't ask who it was for. Not my business. Yes, I did the arrangement itself for free, but then he paid for the individual flowers and helped me out with watering quite a few plants when he visited - all without me asking. I think that I owed him that much."  
  
That makes the festive bouquet partially the result of bartering between the two, not preferential treatment. Richard doesn't really have anything to say to that. "Was it a good bouquet at least?" Flake asks just as casually, and he just nods without further comment; this is good enough for the keyboardist, who then immediately goes back to pouring and stirring in capfuls of the liquid into various vases. He's forgotten all about the small green bottle at this point, but after watching Flake do it a third time it suddenly clicks.  
  
"Feeding them, are you? The bouquet yesterday came with a bottle of that stuff. I think it was the same thing, anyway."  
  
"Mm. I make it myself."  
  
Richard perks up at those words, his interest aroused. "You do? What do you put in it?"  
  
The older man glances at him oddly, doubtless thinking that this is very out of character for Richard. "Lemon juice, sugar and bleach at a ratio to two, one and a quarter."  
  
 _"Bleach?"_  
  
"Keeps the water clean. So does the lemon juice. Flowers thrive best in slightly acidic water, though moderation is the key. Isn't it always," he holds up the copper rod. "and I use this to stir it in because copper's also a fungicide."  
  
Richard nods slightly. "Left over from your teenage years?"  
  
The keyboardist's hand pauses in mid-air. His expression remains the same, and he's still focused on the flowers, but he doesn't move, frozen in place. The younger man watches him for a moment, and quietly walks back to the counter, sensing that he's stumbled onto an unwelcome topic and that he ought to back away. For someone who has very clear-cut opinions and ways of presenting them, and for someone with so much natural charisma, the one thing that Richard is bad at is apologizing and withdrawing properly after having offended someone that he didn't mean to offend. Best for the two of them to just pretend that the reminder never took place; the keyboardist isn't the one to escalate things and is extremely hard to anger, but he is always obvious about what pleases him and what doesn't. This is one of the latter times.  
  
 _It's as Olli said,_ he thinks to himself. _There's no point in getting all confrontational over it._  
  
He knows that he's right, though, regarding the copper rod. Flake used to be a toolmaker, which might explain the odd wires and raw metals that he has sometimes been seen working with. It was completely the wrong job for him and he knew it, so much that after obtaining several jobs in the new, reunified Germany, he gave up listing his toolmaking apprenticeship on his employment records altogether. Richard is fairly sure that this is dishonest at best and perhaps even illegal, if one adds on the amount of raw materials he smuggled out; but then again, that was a long time ago, and he's not the one to talk about what _the law_ requires. Flake probably wouldn't appreciate any advice in that vein from someone who willfully fled his country to become a _persona non grata_ , so he just pushes that entire chain of thought aside and waits until the other returns.  
  
Winter is not known for being a kind season for flowers. He suspects that most of those flowers have been grown indoors and transported from somewhere else, but some species just can't thrive if not in certain very specific conditions. Roses are an absolute necessity for a florist, so he takes their presence for granted, but there are no sunflowers or tropical flowers available - mostly the easily recognizable usuals, tulips, carnations, hyacinths, poinsettia plants and the like. There is also a considerable seed section and several bulbs, ready for planting - they keep far better, after all. Many of the flowers are in warm colours to suit the season, though Richard spots a vase filled with vibrant blue and kneels down for a closer look. Those flowers are tall, with several layers of petals over each other in a star shape, smallish and almost feathery. He's seen them before, though he has no idea what they might be called - he brushes over the stems and tries to ease some of them aside, wanting to see if there is a naming card or anything of that sort.  
  
Footsteps echo behind him. Flake's returned. "Stop _messing_ with them, will you? Especially if you don't even intend on buying any."  
  
The guitarist raises his arms defensively, but obliges him and steps away from the vase. "Hey, I was just curious. I've seen those so many times before, when I was younger, and I never knew what they were. No one I ever asked about them knew either. What _are_ they called?"  
  
"Delphinium," comes the answer, near instantly. "they're usually summer flowers, it was a pain to get them here in the first place. They're not cheap right now. Leave them alone."  
  
"All right, well, I won't touch them," Richard says, holding back the urge for a further retort; he stands properly and edges away from several buckets filled with baby's breath. "hey, I recognize those. Never saw so many of them in one place, though."  
  
Flake is slightly more lax about this one. " _Rispiges Gipskraut._ They're all over the place. We use them as filler in arrangements rather than selling them on their own, they don't even really smell of anything."  
  
A quick sniff verifies this; there is a very faint, fragile kind of scent there, but not enough to be overwhelming or remarkable in any extent. He nods and returns to the counter. "And that one-" Richard says, stretching his arm out towards a tiny bundle of leaves in a slightly-cracked pot. The plant in question is actually behind the counter, just out of reach, but that only means that he can lean towards the older man, just so- "what's that called?"  
  
And then the magic is broken as Flake frowns at him and moves away, taking down the pot. "This one isn't for sale," he says, almost crossly, as he enters the small office and clears a space by the windowsill for the plant to go in; once the curtain is opened, Richard has a full view of everything because the room is just that small and open, and even as the keyboardist sets down the pot and emerges he can see the sunlight streaking against its tiny leaves. "the shop doesn't deal in those, I found it abandoned by the road. I'd like to find out who did that and give them a good talking to, they're expensive in Germany."  
  
"That doesn't answer my question, Flake."  
  
Flake gives him a slightly exasperated look, but his obligation as a florist takes over and he moves to lean against the counter again, deep in thought. "Begonia," he says, peeling off his gloves and laying them (one atop the other) on the counter. His hands look softer and paler than the usual, somehow, perhaps by virtue of having been hidden all this time. "they aren't native to Germany or even much of the western hemisphere, I think this particular species-" his fingers tap out a slow, lazed rhythm, evenly-cut fingernails making a soft clicking noise with each tap. _He can't keep his fingers still,_ Richard notes to himself, paying more attention to his hands than the actual explanation that he asked for. _He's a pianist and keyboardist first and foremost, he belongs with us, not here._ "-comes from China and Japan. So quite a rare customer. I'd be very disappointed if we couldn't save it. These are quite tender, they need plenty of sun and if you give them too much water their roots rot away and then they die."  
  
Richard lets out a low whistle. "You knew all of that when you rescued it?"  
  
 _"Ja."_  
  
"Quite a lot of work, this begonia. Though if anyone could save it it's probably you, what with you taking on so many responsibilities and still balancing them so perfectly."  
  
Richard's principle is that to get anyone to do anything, one must always coax them into the mood; and really, why _wouldn't_ he compliment Flake? It's by no means false that he's being sensible and splitting his time between rehearsals and work, instead of gambling his everything into a band that's not guaranteed to succeed. (He has to grant that point, as much as he hates to acknowledge it.)  Richard really has to wonder how the man manages to have any time to himself, but at the same time, it is quite admirable. In his mind, this casual compliment is the first step to softening Flake's demeanor, perhaps even towards gaining a full commitment out of him. Being in amicable terms with his keyboardist can only be a good thing.  
  
The reality, however, is that Flake takes off his glasses and just surveys him with his own severe, icy-blue eyes in response.  
  
"I've answered several questions and that's quite enough from you, Herr," he says coolly. "I don't believe that you're here to buy anything. If you aren't going to help me earn my living - well, then. Good afternoon. _Hinaus!_ "  
  
Then he puts his glasses and gloves back on, and turns his back on Richard to help a customer who's just entered. The younger man fails to get another word out of him afterwards, and leaves the shop five minutes later, flustered and very annoyed about being back to square one.  
  
\-----  
  
A note about Richard Kruspe.  
  
He's the lead guitarist of Rammstein, blond and blue-eyed with pierced ears, and the founder of the band. In 1995 - only three days left now - he'll be twenty-eight years old, but he still hasn't lost any of his boyish charm about him; why, if his face is shaved and he's dressed in the right attire, he can even pass as a university student. He always wears a single gold hoop in his left earlobe, thinks that he was born with the wrong hair colour, and is always neat and clean. He's a loyal friend, his life is lived according to a vaguely-defined philosophy of hedonism and close friendships, and sometimes he gets horrible flashbacks about the October of 1989, when he was arrested and tortured by the Stasi for three days for no other reason than having been in the wrong place at the wrong time. This is quite often followed by hazy, just-as-disturbing memories of him fleeing East Germany with his life on the line. He self-medicates with alcohol, coffee, and small white pills when those times come. (Not all three at once.) But for most part, enough time has passed that he doesn't let it bother him all the time. And most importantly of all, he's _incredibly_ stubborn, and he can't let go of perceived slights against him easily. It's a beautiful December morning, he's in Till's place for band practice - one of his favourite places in the world and his favourite thing to do, respectively - the day after Flake brushed him off, and he's _still_ fuming about it.  
  
"Something wrong, Risch?"  
  
He turns his head. Paul Landers is sitting next to him, head tilted like an inquisitive songbird, a questioning smile on his lips.  
Paul is an odd one. He's perhaps the first port of call to refer to regarding anything about Flake, when the man himself isn't present, being his flatmate and best friend. The two of them are an artifact left over from Feeling B and have tasted success far earlier than really _any_ of them, which leads to Richard's mild anxiety about Rammstein 'measuring up' eventually. Paul is also the rhythm guitarist of Rammstein, a position decided after much wringing of hands and heated talk (and downright opposition, in the case of Schneider, who was also in Feeling B and still maintains some sourness towards the other's hyperactive disposition), and by all means he and Richard _should_ be able to work together far better than any other combination of two in the band.  
  
That's the theory, anyway. So far they've gotten along, but they're not exactly at the stage where they are one hundred percent compatible. He looks back at Paul for a moment or two, wondering whether he should tell him about Flake and his annoyance towards the older man. Paul might be able to provide some perspective.  
  
"Risch?"  
  
"Sorry," he says, and gives him a small smile. "I'm just... I'm just thoughtful today. Don't mind me."  
  
Then again, the older guitarist most definitely has a positive bias towards Flake. Even if he provides perspective, it's probably not going to be worded in terms that Richard wants to hear right now. Perhaps that's shallow of him, but at least he's very honest about it. "Just wanted to make sure, you've been looking a bit off all morning."  
  
"I'll be fine," Richard says, and glances at the clock. Eleven thirty. "say... do you know when Flake's coming?"  
  
"Before the session begins, he said. Don't worry about it. He'll definitely turn up."  
  
They're set to start practicing at noon. Unless multiple members of the band are missing, or someone is missing for an _extremely_ good reason, start times are considered non-negotiable; if someone comes in late, they're expected to tune up their instrument as quickly as possible and join in as best as they can, because the others aren't going to stop a piece just to wait for them. They're all for helping each other, but a degree of personal responsibility is always necessary. Flake apparently has just short of half an hour left before he might have to play catching up, and even though Richard knows that he probably will walk through the door any second now, he almost wishes that he'd be late just to get some personal satisfaction.  
  
It _is_ quite petty of him. Again, he's very honest about it. That should count for something.  
  
The clock is showing a quarter to eleven. Paul is idly transcribing the minute-long melody they'd come up with in the previous practice session onto a piece of manuscript paper. Schneider's rustling around in one of the other rooms, where the drums are kept, beginning to tune up for practice; he's conversing with Olli in the meanwhile, their voices too low for Richard to hear. Till's in his room and has been for the past hour, probably working on more lyrics; he has plenty of his own writings lying around, but he's at that unique position of not being able to contribute much until some music is provided for him to set those poems to. _Then_ he takes lead. He's always been fascinated by the older man, quiet and shy on the outside but existing within a harsh, passionate universe of his own making, and that makes him smile-  
  
-the doorbell rings. Paul immediately drops his pen. " _Flake!_ "  
  
Richard starts; he puts his guitar aside and stands to get the door, but Paul is faster than he is. Flake is untying his scarf when the door opens, his hair slightly windswept. " _Hallo_ ," he says with a polite smile, addressed to both guitarists. "I'm here."  
  
"About time, too! I was beginning to think you were lost in the traffic, you're hardly ever late and the wait was getting so _long_ , and-"  
  
"I wasn't aware that I had ever misplaced myself," is Flake's dry but good-natured response. He takes off his shoes and coat, hanging the latter up on a spare hook near the door, and only then allows himself to be enveloped in Paul's eager embrace. "I can't stay for too long - I need to go again after three hours, need to cover for someone - but I'm here now, aren't I?" Paul responds by lifting his head and kissing Flake over his left cheek; this movement is reciprocated by the younger man, and also repeated on the other side. Their usual greeting, somewhat uncharacteristic for Germans but nevertheless endearing.  
  
" _Wer ist es? Flake?_ " Till peers around from the doorway of the spare room; he sees the keyboardist, beams, and abandons whatever he's been doing to greet him. "just in time, as always! Let's get you a cup of coffee-"  
  
Flake nods and gives him a brief smile, accepting his hug as well. " _Guten Tag._ Yes, I'd love a coffee. The usual, _bitte_."  
  
"Coming up," Till pats his shoulder, hollering as he leaves towards the kitchen: "Flake's here and he wants coffee. Anyone else want coffee?"  
  
"Hello, Flake! And yes, milk and three sugars," Schneider calls back, peering out of the room. The keyboardist raises his hand in a wave, and he waves back with a grin, as he regards Flake far better than he does Paul. "Olli says he doesn't want any."  
  
Paul tuts, though he keeps it to himself until the drummer withdraws again. "I'm not so sure about the three sugars," he confides to Flake and Richard, smiling just a little. "too sweet, for all _his_ machismo! I'd like a cup too, Till, the way I like it."  
  
"So that's one for Schneider, one for Flake, one for you, Paul - do you want any, Risch?"  
  
"No thanks," the guitarist says, his voice coming out curter than intended, but no one seems to notice. He's too focused on the code-of-sorts that Paul and Flake appear to share with Till - ' _the usual'_ and ' _the way I like it',_ indeed! Since the band began, he's gotten used to regarding Till specifically as _his_ find, _his_ closest friend and mentor, because of his tranquil and worldly-wise demeanor. He doesn't usually think about the period before then, immediately after the reunification, when he was trying to get his bearings in Berlin and Till was in Schwerin, minding his own business and spending his days taking care of his daughter and his work. This is because he doesn't like the fact that he has no meaningful memories with Till from that time. Paul and Flake were the ones visiting Till then, every weekend via train, just to see their long-time fan and good friend. From what he understands, Till didn't really open up to them to the same deep extent that he eventually did with the guitarist - that's something he's repeated with no one _but_ Richard - but the two of them were around and comfortable for long enough that they know each other's habits and preferences, even to this day.  
  
Till returns with the tray of coffee cups as he's pondering this. He heads over to the other room to give Schneider his, and then sets the tray down on the low table. "Strong milk coffee for you, all black for Flake. No sugars for either of you. Just the way you two always demanded, _lieber Gott_ , I've never met anyone else who judged their fans by their ability to make coffee. How is it?"  
  
It's actually really odd, thinking about this now. Trying to imagine Till as a fan of Feeling B, scrambling towards the front of the stage, pumping his fists and cheering them on like a particularly enthusiastic teenager, is a weird image no matter how one looks at it. It certainly happened, but it's jarring as all hell.  
  
The keyboardist takes a small sip. "Mm. Just right. You make the best coffee I've ever had - that doesn't warrant _poking_ me, Paul, you drink your coffee far too weak for my liking - and I've always looked forward to it."  
  
"Lovely," Till grins, and (much to the guitarist's surprise) lifts his hand and teases his fingers into Flake's hair, even pressing his nose to it briefly. Richard is more stunned that the keyboardist is letting him in the first place; he looks bemused, but doesn't pull away from Till or act offended in any way. "so are _you_ , now that I think of it. Let me guess - geraniums, lilies, and roses?"  
  
"Not lilies, I'm afraid, it's not the season. You're just imagining those. But otherwise correct, Herr."  
  
"' _Till_ '," the singer says, and laughs in his warm, deep voice. "years of knowing you and you still sometimes call me that. I'll never understand the way your mind works."  
  
 _Then_ Richard understands why he never picked up on Flake working elsewhere. Everyone has just presupposed that everyone else knew what they were talking about in regard to his job, and felt no need to specifically mention it by name, only referring vaguely to the smell of flowers, Flake having to leave at a certain time, or him having been somewhere before the band practice. Which works fine for those in the know, yes, but it's also why Richard's been left out of the loop for so long.  
  
 _And this is what happens when I trust things to run totally on their own,_ he can't help but think to himself, though he manages to cut off that unfortunate chain of thought right there. Things are working _smoothly_ on their own, and that isn't a bad thing; him just not having known the specific details of _who_ , and _how_ , is entirely down to his own lack of awareness. He might be the closest thing to a 'leader' that this collective has to offer, but Rammstein was formed under the primary agreement that they should all be equal - he should not be thinking himself superior over anybody less than a year into this project. "Well, then, Flake's here," he speaks up, addressing Paul (who's leaning a little into the keyboardist's shoulder). "so technically, practice has begun, _ja_? Tune up."  
  
Flake raises an eyebrow. "What? You _still_ haven't done that?"  
  
"Hey, I was waiting for you, was all," is the older man's gentle protest, coupled with a smile so charming that Flake can't help but soften a little. "I prefer it when you help me out. You know that already."  
  
"Oh, I swear... well, Richard is right. Let's get to it."  
  
They put their cups aside. Paul takes up his guitar, positions it properly on his lap, and strums all strings consecutively twice. Richard and Till both watch as they always do; when the keyboardist is here, they usually have no need of a metronome, and the process of Flake-assisted tuning hasn't ceased to be fascinating to them yet. "F-sharp, A-sharp, E, G, H, F," he recites, then nods at Paul. "that _is_ quite out of tune. Low E-string, again, _bitte_. Loosen it a bit."  
  
Flake has what multiple people have acknowledged as _perfect pitch_. All of those people have been musicians, some even classically trained. Richard would be lying if he said that that isn't one of the reasons why he wants to keep Flake around.  
  
"A little more. That's just barely an F," Paul nods and keeps on strumming that one string, twisting the tuning-machine head slowly. The keyboardist sits and listens, eyes closed, for a few seconds, before nodding. " _halt._ And that's the E. Can you take it from there, or would you like me to stay?"  
  
Richard isn't sure whether it's _absolute_ pitch or just a very well-developed-and-maintained sense of _relative_ pitch. But whatever it is, it works. He's hardly going to submit the other to complicated tests just to find out.  
  
"Stay with me?"  
  
Flake nods. Paul gives him yet another sunny grin and carries on, placing his finger behind the fifth fret of the E-string, and plucks the string experimentally. The sound comes out as a clear A, a reference tone for the next string, and he continues tuning in that vein for the next five minutes or so. Flake stays, saying little except to indicate that Paul should tighten or loosen the machine heads a little. Because of his uncommon sensitivity, the keyboardist is alarmingly prone to becoming annoyed whenever he hears a piece of music that he recognizes, only to discover that it's being played in the wrong key or the instruments involved aren't tuned correctly. Even if it's not a piece he's heard before, if there is too much dissonance, he starts to clench and unclench his hands, twitch, or exclaim that somehow 'it's all wrong'. It apparently used to be so bad that his _own_ inevitable mistakes distressed him, until he was practically a neurotic - though given Flake's personality, Richard doesn't _quite_ believe that. Probably one of Paul's dramatic exaggerations. What is true but inexplicable is why Flake ever chose to involve himself in punk and metal in the _first place_ , when the very loud, dissonant nature of those genres would only ensure his utter torment.  
  
 _What a bizarre human being._  
  
But enough of that. He's here, he's being polite, it's time to get some work done. Richard's guitar was already tuned to the standard when Flake came in; he bends his head and slowly strums all of his strings in turn, just to check. There is no reaction from the keyboardist, so he assumes that his metronome has been in full working order. He'd never have heard the end of it otherwise.  
  
\-----  
  
After all of that, it's business as usual, brisk and practical. A few more melodies are produced and subsequently written down for future reference - most of them will ultimately come to nothing, but that's always the way it is - and the one Paul was writing down earlier is the one they decide to stick with for the time being. They get down a good riff and ponder over what kind of time signature is best, before just settling on the usual 4/4. (Flake's involvement is minimal at the moment, his role being largely improvisational.) Till goes and fetches two sheets of paper with pre-written verses on it, one in German and one in English; they're on slightly different topics but appear to fit the meter and general feel of the melody. "I think the German is better," is one of the singer's low-voiced comments as he hands them over to Richard. The guitarist glances at them, and mentally agrees with him. "if you can ask them what they can all think - I'm going out for a cigarette break."  
  
" _Kein Problem._ Enjoy it," Till goes out, and Richard makes the rounds. Paul and Schneider (rather surprisingly) are in some agreement that they could work with the English version, thinking that it's probably more accessible to more listeners should the song make it onto their first album. It might not do, but there's no harm in treating every potential song as if they could. Olli, Richard and the poet himself think the German version superior. There's only one vote left.  
  
"Flake!" the keyboardist, having been engaged in tidying up the music sheets, looks up. "new song. We need your input."  
  
"I'm happy to give it," he says mildly, and leans towards Richard. Till was right; he is heavily saturated with the smell of flowers. He's still not sure whether that's a good thing or not, but disregards the thought for the time being and hands the two pieces of paper to him. "ah. These fit - _which_ of the melodies that we came up with, might I ask?"  
  
The guitarist taps the piece of paper that Paul was writing on at the beginning, which has since been expanded by several different kinds of handwriting, letter notation, and crossed-out mistakes, and now continues onto the back. "This one. He began work on the lyrics when we came up with it last time - he thinks the English version sounds a bit wrenched and he doesn't quite know what to do for the chorus in either language, but there you are," Flake shakes his head as he surveys both pieces of paper, quietly murmuring something like ' _nüscht_ '. "hmm?"  
  
" _Nichts_ ," Flake repeats again in _Hochdeutsch_. "we don't _need_ the English version. The German is good enough."  
  
That's all he perceives as necessary; not even constructive criticism is given. It's spectacularly blunt of him, but one of Flake's conditions for giving Rammstein a try was that they kept all of their songs in the German language, after all. Richard has to wonder what _other_ response he was even expecting. "Four for the German version against two for the English, then. I'll tell Till."  
  
Flake nods and resumes what he was doing. The singer is informed once he returns from his break; then all six sit together while what they have is played through several times, with Flake advising that both Paul and Richard re-tune their sixth strings a step down halfway through. Not at all bad for nearly two-and-a-half hours of work. "Ahh, I'm tired," Schneider hollers the moment they decide to take a break, flinging himself onto the armchair. He tugs the folded wool blanket on the armrest towards himself, spreading it out quickly and curling beneath it. "could you guys give me a couple of hours to nap? I really need to rest, my arms are killing me."  
  
Till nods and pulls the blanket slightly to cover the other's feet. "You may. But before you fall asleep, do you want anything? Water, a snack...?"  
  
"I want the entire concept of backbeats to go hell. Can you make that happen?"  
  
They all laugh. "I can't, unfortunately, but feel free to sleep off your pain and forget for a while. _Süße Traume_ , Schneider."  
  
The drummer nods, mumbles a small 'nnh', and falls immediately asleep. "It's time I left, too," Flake says, and stands up. "I don't want to be late. It's such a short time I'm going to be there, I need all the minutes I can pull in."  
  
"All right. Be careful on the way."  
  
"You know I will, Paul, I'll be back around half six. Dinner's going to be goulash, if you can wait that long. _Wiedersehen, alles_."  
  
"Mm, I look forward to it. See you back at home."  
  
Paul sees Flake to the door. Richard remains sitting, pretending to survey the sheet music, but really he's staring above the papers and towards the two of them. Their goodbye routine is just like how they greeted each other, exchanging small pleasantries before parting with two kisses, one on each cheek. Paul even rubs his smooth cheek very gently against Flake's before he pulls away. " _Bis dann_ ," he murmurs, and waves with an almost-dreamy look to his face. And what's more, the keyboardist doesn't seem to mind at all, as evidenced by his wide, genuine smile as he nods and heads out of the door, soon out of sight as his footsteps clatter on the stairs.  
  
"How do you _do_ that?" Till asks Paul, bemused, as soon as he peers out of the window to see Flake walking away. "I've still never really seen him really opening up to anyone but you. You're still living together?"  
  
"Mmhmm," the older guitarist nods, and grins as if to say that the nature of their relationship is a secret. "I'm convinced that there are no downsides to living with Flake. He's fun, good company, between us we make the best food... rent's always on time... we can talk music all day long if we wanted... and whenever winter rolls around I can cuddle up with him for a while. He doesn't mind."  
  
Richard would like to add that Flake is also brutally honest (even for a German), arrogant, averse to the contact of most other people and that he acts more self-concerned than anything. But he doesn't, because he hasn't known him for longer than Paul has, and there's just that annoying possibility that everything he can list off regarding Flake is completely wrong. And he hates being wrong. So he keeps quiet and observes Till and Paul talking, and the latter's smile, wondering if Flake only ever smiles like that to the older guitarist, whether they've always been so physically close, or even if they ever referred to each other _formally_ at all. He wonders if they've ever slept together.  
  
The first thing he is reminded of in regard to Paul and Flake 'sleeping together' is, of course, sex. But as hard as he tries to envision that scene, he can't, purely because one is so ridiculously cheery and the other so ridiculously stoic that he can't imagine how sex between them could even work. He can think up to them engaged in hopeless laughter and a cuddle, and then - nothing. So he thinks of them sleeping together in the most literal, innocent sense instead, the guitarist curled up in Flake's arms, moonlight drifting over their shared bed. The few times Richard has seen Flake sleep, he's always put the keyboardist down as a very sedate sleeper, barely moving nor even breathing; perhaps he would be like an immovable pillow for Paul, one arm curled loosely around the other's form and keeping him from rolling away from him. Perhaps Paul smiles in his sleep whenever he's snuggled up with Flake, perhaps the two of them sleep unclothed even in winter due to their guaranteed proximity to each other, and maybe - just maybe - they combine their slumber with shy, gentle touches sometimes, lips against skin, breaths and scents mingling.  
  
 _Well. That's gotten me imagining now, for sure._  
  
Whilst the thought of them 'being together' is plausible - Feeling B was never a shining example of following the rules of the GDR or keeping modest, anyway - Richard has the vague notion that he should be feeling ashamed for thinking all of this. He feels like some kind of voyeur, he hasn't put this much intimate thought into his _own_ relationships in the past couple of years; if either Paul or Flake found out, they'd be mortified and angry at him, quite likely. But when he puts down the music sheets and sighs, closing his eyes in an attempt to catch a quick nap of his own, all he can think about is the keyboardist asleep after his shift at the florist's - and to a lesser extent Paul, melded lovingly against him, his blond hair becoming perfumed with the sweet scent of the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **GOODNESS GRACIOUS ME, IT HAS BEEN TWO YEARS SINCE I LAST WROTE RICHARD NAVELGAZING FOR TENS OF THOUSANDS OF WORDS.**   
>  **I'M SURE HE'LL GET THROUGH IT QUICKER THIS TIME.**
> 
> This seems to be a trend. I'm beginning to think that 'inside Richard's head' is my most comfortable spot when writing Rammfics, regardless of pairing, featured characters or situation. This is strange, seeing as I'm mainly a Till girl and the focus is on Flake this time around. 
> 
> I'm spending a lot of time looking up floristry at the moment. Flowers are extremely relevant in this story, they being the closest thing to a 'plot point' the video of DRSG '95 even has; hey, you've got to cling onto something. I don't know how long this fic is. I thought four-parter, but it might be longer than that; I'm going to give up speculating and just take it as it comes, letting it flourish.
> 
> Some notes:
> 
> * Flake is _extremely_ East Berliner. So is Paul, though he isn't as blatant about it. The bit in the first segment about how Flake pronounces certain words are actually based off [Berliner dialect](http://www.brighthubeducation.com/german-lesson-plans/49298-german-dialects-berlin-or-berlinerisch-dialect/), though I won't try to transcribe dialect speech directly. That can only end in tears. His pronounciation of ' _nichts'_ is also an example. _Hochdeutsch_ is Standard High German.  
>  * Flower food recipe is accurate. So is the effect of copper. Dropping a copper penny into vase water used to be a method to keep it clean.  
> * Flake was a toolmaker's apprentice for a year. [He didn't like it.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kcu_52H2RwU)  
> * At this point in the fic, it's been just over five years since Richard had his run-in with the Stasi in October 1989, and not very long since he settled down and got a clear idea of where he was heading in life. His flashbacks and anxiety are thus still quite frequent.  
> * Delphiniums are indeed summer flowers, baby's breath is that small floaty white flower thing that you see in bouquets, and begonias do originate from the Eastern world.  
> * Schneider wasn't very cool with Paul when he first joined, because of a Feeling B tour went sour; Paul and Flake used to visit Till in Schwerin too, where the latter sometimes engaged in such cheerful activities such as [trying to run over bunnies with cars for food.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Os3hoGUa5OY)  
> * [Absolute pitch](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Absolute_pitch#Scientific_studies) is what Flake does have in this fic; it's rarer in life than I've implied, but relative pitch is quite common in accomplished musicians. Symptoms caused by 'perfect pitch' are as written in the fic, though with some exaggeration. He probably doesn't have perfect pitch in real life, but I can imagine.  
> * Normally letter notation of musical tones go C-D-E-F-G-A-B. In German, the B is replaced with an H, which I've reflected in Flake's speech  
> * The standard guitar tuning is E-A-D-G-B-E, sixth string to first. Flake's advice re: the guitarists' sixth strings refer to '[drop-D tuning](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dropped_D_tuning)', quite common in the metal genre, where the sixth string is tuned a 'step'/tone down. The song they are writing is 'Wollt Ihr Das Bett In Flammen Sehen?', which according to the official Rammstein Liederbuch (long since out of print), must indeed be played with drop-D tuning.
> 
> What am I trying to get out of this fic, aside from it being a gift for kamisied? Well. Despite featuring a near-pathological realist, the goal of this fic atmosphere-wise is: _dreamy_. Fleeting yet substantial, realistic yet fantastical.  
>  Let's see how it pans out.


	2. 02

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer: I do not know any of the members of Rammstein, this is strictly a work of fiction and I do not profit from nor claim to represent true aspects of their lives in this story.**
> 
> **Warnings:** Personally interpreted past of the band, slash, slashy overtones between people who otherwise aren't more than friends, post-1989 German politics, mild angst, Richard navelgazing, a philosophical conversation or two. Literary references. Flower meanings are sprinkled liberally through the fic and are explained. I would put 'spoilers', but that would be meaningless as DRSG'95 isn't really a music video that you can 'spoil'. Not horrifying or absurdist - it might even be feel-good. 
> 
> Written for [kamisied](http://kamisied.deviantart.com/) on DA, in celebration of her fic ['Feuer und Wasser'](http://kamisied.deviantart.com/art/Feuer-und-Wasser-chapter-1-395567722).

**Kamelie Liebt Mich (02) - A Rammstein Fanfiction**  
  
Pairing: Richard/Flake  
  
\--------------------------------  
  
The begonia isn't due to flower for a long time. According to Flake, this is completely normal. Right now frost is still thick on the windows, and despite the warmth in the building (and Flake's immaculate caring regime), the plant isn't visibly in the _best_ of shape - to the guitarist, that is. Richard can't really see the difference, but he's been assured that its leaves are already waxier and sturdier, perhaps even ready to be planted outside by April, and he'll just have to trust the other's word on it.   
  
Ah well, one can't hurry those things. With the keyboardist in charge, it's always going to be in good hands, so there's no need to worry about that now.  
  
On that note, Flake has a new project. The owner of the shop has been impressed with how he's taken in the begonia; so much that she has given him five young camellia shrubs for him to look after, figuring that with him there's hope for those plants to flourish. The warm, humid fields of South Asia, where begonias and camellias hail from, are nothing like Berlin in the midst of winter. If Flake can get them to flower at some point this year, it'll be no small triumph, so it's no wonder that his attention is devoted to them at present.   
  
"Like you don't have _enough_ to do already?" Richard comments when he finds out, peering over the counter and into the office when there's a lull in business. The pots containing the shrubs are sitting haphazardly over the room, and Flake is examining each in turn. "playing keyboards in our band, tuning the instruments, mixing, looking over Till's latest work, keeping Paul in line - how do you even have enough hours left in the day to look after and sell plants in the first place?"  
  
In Richard's mind, being in Rammstein is still Flake's primary occupation, although it's the florist job that's bringing in the other's main source of income. It shows in the way that he talks. Flake gives him an unreadable look, straightens up, and dusts his hands. "A lot can happen in twenty-four hours," he says dryly, and walks out of the office, closing the door behind him. "I'm just glad that I don't have to grow them from the seed, that really would have been time-consuming."  
 _  
The feeling's mutual. We can't have you spending all your free time in this place, can we?_  
  
So the guitarist thinks, anyway. He's never been the most subtle of men, but he's perceptive enough to know when to say certain things and when to keep quiet. Instead, he looks away from Flake - though he stays leaning by the counter - and towards a vase of carnations sitting by the register. He knows those to be fake, plastic 'dewdrops' attached to the stiff-fabric petals, arranged and covered so that no one sees the wires that pass for stems. A curious thing to have in a place that is otherwise full of real flowers, fresh and absolutely bursting with life.   
  
Then he does a double take and wonders why he cares at all. Clearly he's been visiting this shop too often over the past few days.  
  
But Richard is convinced that it's for the good of everyone. He's managed to figure out what Flake's job schedule is _meant_ to be, but also knows that it's nigh useless because the older man claims overtime and seems to drop in randomly to help out with the shop. Only he, the owner, and another worker (who Richard barely sees) work there; all three of them are competent, they'd have to be when dealing with such delicate and easily-ruined flowers, but they _are_ still only three people and need all the help they can get. And yet despite all of those things, Flake is still with Rammstein. Practicing usually takes place during the day if they're at Till's place, or at night if they're at their rented studio; the time in the latter is limited and precious, so Flake always turns up to those. Even counting the few hours he's missed at Till's, his attendance is impressive and he seems to be enjoying his time playing.  
  
But how he ever gets enough time to sleep at night, God only knows.  
  
"What did you get Till for his birthday? I won't tell."  
  
Said day is tomorrow. Till is turning thirty-two and in good spirits about it. "I've already given it to him," Flake says without looking up, now watering some of the potted plants near the counter. "a new copy of Brecht's collected poems, his old one was completely falling apart. It was much appreciated."  
  
Richard nods and waits for more, but nothing else is said. Typical Flake, always giving everyone _exactly_ what they have asked for, no more or less; he's answered the question, so he sees no need to actually keep the conversation going. The guitarist has been able to take various aspects of Flake's aloofness in stride, but this, this _utterly frustrating lack of communication_ , is something he simply cannot reconcile himself with.   
  
_How the hell do you do it, Flake Lorenz? How did you manage back in Feeling B without being able to hold a proper conversation?_  
  
"... Richard."  
  
 _Or was there something about them that you don't feel with us? Do you even care at all?_  
  
A harsh clunking sound cuts through his thoughts. The metal watering can has been set down forcefully before him. _"Richard."_  
  
"Y-yes?"  
  
"Why are you staring at me? _Stop it!_ " the guitarist blinks and takes a step backwards, startled; he has indeed been staring in Flake's general direction without quite seeing him, and from the other's expression, he's let his discontentment seep through. "I can't figure you out. What exactly do you want of me? Why are you here?"  
  
There it is, the elephant in the room, the question that's been weighing heavily between them for days. Richard has been anticipating this, though not long enough to be able to predict Flake's reaction. "To get to know my bandmate better, of course," he shrugs, faking nonchalance. "isn't it obvious?"   
  
There is a moment of silence before the keyboardist rolls his eyes and turns away. But Richard isn't about to let him go that easily; the tension that's been building up between them during the last week or so has finally reached a peak, and if he doesn't get answers out of Flake now he probably won't get a second chance. _He_ can play at being confrontational, too. "I can ask the same of you, Flake. Why didn't you tell me?"  
  
"Tell you what? I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."  
  
"I mean about this," Richard gestures in a sweep around his surroundings. "you're obviously good at what you're doing, both in our band and in here, so I don't have any complaints about that. But what stopped you from just _telling_ me about your second job? What did you think I was going to do? _Stop_ you?"  
  
"Would you have?"  
  
Richard hesitates. This isn't quite the answer he expected. "I - I doubt it, I'm not exactly _preventing_ anyone from having another job as long as it doesn't interfere with the band schedule."  
  
"So what does it matter whether I work here or not? I don't exactly miss rehearsals. Everyone keeps _reminding_ me," Flake allows a slight hint of irritation to creep into his voice, but the inflection is gone as quickly as it arrived. "but I turn up, regardless. I don't understand why you're making so much of a fuss about it."  
  
"It is a problem! How can I work around potential scheduling conflicts if you don't tell me anything? I know we plan those out together, yes, but I've been watching you work for the past week and you spend at least forty hours a week here already. _Lieber Gott!_ That's an extremely limited window that you're available in, what if someone else in the band has an emergency and we can't reschedule because you don't happen to be available at any other time? How do you even find time to practice on your own, come to band practice and carry on with your personal life? I value your presence in the band immensely, Flake, but not if you're going to work yourself to death before we get anywhere."  
  
The older man just looks at him impassively. "Well, stop _watching_ me, then, if it distresses you that much. When I'm not there, go on without me. I manage fine, and the exact details are none of your business."  
  
Richard throws up his hands. " _Mensch!_ You didn't care this much about work even when the Wall came down. Go on? Without you? When we begged you on our hands and knees and come join the band? I thought you were all about music."  
  
"I do love music, Richard, I'm not being obtuse. But I also love not starving to death and being able to pay the rent. These flowers need all the heat they can get."  
  
Richard stands still. What Flake said was thinly veiled code for _'go away and shut the door when you leave_ '; he looks at the keyboardist for a moment before turning on his heels and leaving the shop, feeling unbelievably furious and wanting to get away before he does something he'll end up regretting. He strides down several blocks with a dark look on his face, unable to quell his anger until - out of all things - he sees a stall selling street food and is reminded of the fact that he didn't have lunch. He stops by and asks for a butter-filled pretzel; a batch is just being pulled out of the oven and another worker is working on a new one, richly-golden butter wrapped in dough and being pulled out to the desired shapes before being placed on the pan. Watching that helps settle his mind just a little, and when he's handed the first one out of the oven (wrapped in a paper bag and with a napkin), he can't help but find the warmth of the pretzel against his hand reassuring.  
  
" _Danke_ ," he says, pays, and carries his food over to a nearby park bench to eat. Only then can he really clear his mind and start thinking.   
  
Why is he so angry? What did he hope to get out of visiting Flake so often? Being on better terms with him, certainly, but it goes down deeper than that. Perhaps he'd hoped to be able to manipulate his potential closeness to the older man to keep him in the band.  
  
 _But that actually is what we need. Doesn't that work out in the best interests of everyone?_  
  
1995 holds entirely different prospects for Rammstein than 1994 did, for certain. The past year has mostly been for fun; save for a handful of gigs around the country, they've not had a meaningful _tour_ or a particular _contract_ , preferring to do whatever they want and simply learning to work together. They only obtained a manager last month, after all. But that addition changes the direction of the band altogether, because now it's not just going to be about writing a song on a whim and playing it for anyone who would listen. They need an album, a promotional image of sorts - they need to establish their presence in the musical scene and they need to be very firm about it. Richard isn't a fan of switching around band members or having set roles subverted.   
  
So far Flake's in the band because he has found it entertaining and worthwhile. Richard is afraid that becoming 'commercial' will ruin one or both of these criteria for him. And seeing as Flake has a side job already and it's not set in stone anywhere that he's a member of Rammstein, there is very little stopping him if he wants to cease his involvement. Richard knows that he doesn't - and really _shouldn't_ \- have anywhere near the amount of control that he would like over this, and he finds it _maddening_ because he doesn't understand what is so _hard_ about saying yes or no. Either Flake is absolutely in, or they discover an ultimate conflict in interests - if the latter is the case, fair enough. They can seek another keyboardist before it is too late, as long as they know about it soon.   
  
But this simply cannot happen if Flake _isn't_ _telling them a goddamn thing._  
  
Hot butter spills on his hand and Richard curses under his breath, reaching for the napkin to wipe it off. He's been crushing the pretzel quite thoroughly in his frustration; licking the remainder off his thumb, he discards the napkin into a nearby bin and inhales deeply, trying to get a hold of himself. A small flock of blackbirds are pecking on the grass nearby for crumbs - looking at them reminds him that he's still hungry, so he listlessly bites into the pretzel.  
  
 _... Hmm. Lovely._  
  
The absurdity of his situation sinks in only then, and he sighs, feeling deflated. He takes another bite, reveling in the combination of hot salty-sweet butter and the soft and chewy bread around it, and that helps him to calm down slightly. _That's my anger out of the way_ , he thinks as he tosses a few small pieces of the pretzel towards the flock, _but stewing in it won't help anything, and if I don't do anything about it this situation is going to get worse. How can I fix this?_  
  
Not in the way he's been doing so far, is the answer. He tries to think about things from Flake's point of view. It's difficult because the keyboardist is so aloof that there's very little that Richard actually knows of his thought process; but it just so happens that even if he discards all of Flake's personality, whittling him down into the average human being, said average human being still doesn't appreciate being intruded upon while trying to work. Richard (much to his credit) has never _actively_ interfered with Flake working, so he'd decided at some point that he was somehow totally justified for being there. He hasn't even considered that his mere presence could have been interpreted as unwanted pressure on the keyboardist. He's failed to be polite to Flake just now, as well. The guitarist's critical reverie is shattered when a large crow suddenly flutters down and barges into the flock of blackbirds, cawing loudly and forcing them to take flight. It then begins to scratch at the ground and strut past, taking whatever's left of the scraps that Richard tossed them, enjoying being the only figurative cock-in-the-yard.  
  
It strikes him then that he's almost like that crow, overly domineering. The realization is entirely too depressing for him to handle, but there's no way that he can run from it, either.  
  
Richard wouldn't have dreamt of trying to deprive Flake of his florist job if he was absolutely reliant on it to survive, in which case it's fair enough that he won't commit to Rammstein, but he knows that that's not what's happening. But at the same time, threats and manipulation won't get them anywhere. It's not fair for himself, it's not fair for Flake, and it's not fair for everyone else; he was the one who began the band, he should be acting like a responsible human being. That is precisely what he is not doing, because his method is misguided. Right now he's reacting to Flake exactly the way he would react if he didn't get a cup of coffee after putting money in the machine.   
  
He stares glumly at the crow. Then he looks down at his half-eaten pretzel, before twisting off a small bit and tossing it by the bird's feet. The crow jumps away from the piece and flutters its wings as if to take off at first, before it recognizes it as food; after that it's a matter of stabbing at the pretzel with its sharp beak and devouring it. It looks at Richard expectantly for a few seconds, hopping close and eyeing up the rest of the pretzel with one beady eye; but when he doesn't move, it turns its back on him without remorse and flies away with a drawn-out caw.  
  
Mechanical input and output. Precisely how he shouldn't be treating Flake - he's not a figure that Richard should unconditionally appease and hope for the best, nor can he expect the other to do exactly what the guitarist wants him to do without providing motivation. He has to win the older man over before they can talk meaningfully about Rammstein's future, and because Flake absolutely hates feeling forced, he's going to need to achieve this without reference to the band itself.   
  
_But how?_  
  
Question of the decade, indeed. He finishes the rest of the pretzel and returns home; the rest of that day - including practicing his guitar, wrapping Till's gift, finishing his birthday letter, making dinner, showering and reading a book on the sofa - passes by with thousands of possible solutions and no practical answers to that problem. He does ponder calling up Flake to apologize around half eight in the evening but resists - he might get Paul on the line because the keyboardist isn't home yet, or the latter might not actually want to talk to him even if he were home. Through the entire night and morning, right up until he arrives at Till's at four in the afternoon the next day, this conundrum remains unsolved.  
  
"Oh, stop _beating_ yourself up about it, Kruspe," he mumbles to himself at the doorstep. "or you'll screw up things with Till, too."  
  
When he rings the bell, it's Nele who answers the door. She greets him with all the chirpy sweetness of a nine-year old and that certainly cheers him up a little; Till appears shortly afterwards to greet him, laughing and slapping at his shoulder in a friendly way. " _Guten Tag,_ Richard, how fitting that you're the first person I've seen outside of my daughter all day. Nele's been eager to spend time with you, would you like to stay for the night?"  
  
Richard hardly ever complains about having company. Especially so if said company consists of the Lindemanns.   
  
"Only if it's not a bother, I'd love that. But first - _alles gut zum Geburstag_ ," he leans forwards for the _bussi_ on his cheek, laughing as the older man's stubble tickles him. Till's 'kisses' are reserved only for special occasions. "I hope you like your present - wrote you a letter, too-"  
  
"My favourite method of communication. You should just come live with me, Risch, you do everything that I like," the singer laughs heartily and accepts the gifts. "ah. Cigars?"  
  
"I would if I hadn't moved into my apartment less than a month ago! And yes. Got it in one."  
  
The weather is chilly outside, so Till bids that he please come inside and feel free to relax; Richard is only too glad for the offer, slipping out of his coat and gloves and glancing around the place. He comes here at least three times a week, this isn't a new environment to him, Till or anyone else in the band by any definition; Till isn't one to make a fuss about his birthday so there aren't any special decorations put up, though a pile of presents are stacked on the living room table and the kitchen is full of food and drink. "Everyone else is coming?" Till nods, putting the case of cigars atop his other presents. "Paul, Flake...?"  
  
"Oh yes, they'll turn up, all right. I put a reminder on their door."  
  
 _... 'Was it you? Who wrote-'_  
  
Richard whirls around and stares at Till, the keyboardist's faintly-annoyed voice ringing in his head. "You _what_? Are you - Till, have you been writing stuff on their door? For Flake? ' _Come to the Rammstein rehearsal_ ' or something like that?"  
  
" _Ja_ , that was me. I see he's told you about it," Till laughs, though he quickly stops at Richard's utterly incredulous expression. " _was_? I thought it was relevant to all our interests, keeping him in the band? A reminder or two wouldn't hurt him."  
  
"W-well, it is, but-" the guitarist splutters. "Till, look, he already lives with Paul, I don't think he'd forget. He's probably getting more annoyed, if anything..."  
  
The singer fixes him in a stare. "Has he said that?"  
  
Richard hesitates; but thankfully, Till isn't as illogical as to actually believe that scribbling graffitti on someone's door wouldn't come off as annoying. He nods to himself, giving the other no actual need to answer his question. "I do see your point. I've done it three times and that's probably enough, and he'd have caught on if I carried it on for too long, anyway. Maybe he already has," he nods again, much to the guitarist's relief, and pats the younger man on the shoulder. "you're right. I'll leave him be, and if he asks, I'll come clean. Sound good?"  
  
He actually _would,_ too; Till isn't afraid to admit his mistakes to others, especially if it's for the common good. Richard's spirits are uplifted just a little with this assurance. "Thank you."  
  
It turns out, though, that Till never actually has to come clean about anything. It is exactly five-thirty when Flake arrives alongside Paul, bearing a luscious hand-tied bouquet, a bottle of champagne, polite birthday greetings and exactly zero comments regarding the scribblings on the door. " _Ach_ , Flake," Till exclaims, hugging the keyboardist from the side before the other even has a chance to put all the items down; his reaction is to chuckle and stand still for the other's appreciative kiss on the cheek. "thank you, did you do this by yourself? - I must say, being one step closer to dying suddenly doesn't feel all that bad."  
  
"Glad to see that you're in a celebratory mood," Flake says wryly. "and I did. Paul, if you could..."  
  
"Right here. Our gifts go together, Till, happy birthday," the guitarist hands over a well-wrapped gift. It turns out to be a particularly elegant cut-glass vase, an opaque windswept swirl running around the diameter, and when it catches the last of the sunset outside it throws scattered fragments of light along the wallpaper. "you mentioned needing another after your old one broke, and we thought this would be convenient."  
  
"And it _is_. Don't you think that's pretty, Nele? Risch?"  
  
Both of them answer yes. Richard's rather glad for Nele's presence, for she neutralizes his own; he didn't quite want to be put in the spot when he and Flake are on awkward terms. The keyboardist himself doesn't look at all bothered, but looks are deceiving; thankfully his attention is mostly on Till at the moment, who's asking what flowers are included in the bouquet. Richard recognizes white roses, emerald-lined carnations and some small green chrysanthemums, along with what appears to be fern for the filler material, but everything else is a mystery; curious despite himself, he leans in quietly and takes note of the names that Flake is listing off. "-button-spray chrysanthemums - alstroemeria - lisianthus. They should last for a good month or so, whenever I'm here I'll help trim down the stems."   
  
The vase is quickly cleaned, dried and filled with water. Flake squeezes in the required dose of flower food himself, having brought a bottle with two or three doses marked out on it; the flowers are unwrapped and arranged cleanly into the vase only then, after which they all stand back and admire the arrangement. "Whose birthday is it next?" Till wonders out loud, stroking over a chrysanthemum lightly. "Olli's, isn't it? Can he expect flowers from Flake, too?"  
  
"We can _all_ expect flowers from Flake regardless of where he's working, I think. But yes."  
  
 _I can't,_ Richard is tempted to add quietly, finding Paul's optimism unwarranted, but he has more sense than to say that out loud. After the excitement has died down Paul and Flake withdraw into the living room to wait for the last two band members, and Till brings them coffee while Richard brings out the already-prepared food to lay out on the table. It gives him an excuse to avoid interacting with others; Olli peeks in ten minutes into this endeavour, having slipped inside without the others noticing (quite a feat, his height is hard to miss) and offering to help straight away, and Richard actually turns him down before watching with some amusement as the bassist is dragged away for 'greetings'.   
  
The food is buffet-style, but there is plenty there to feed them all, and there are plenty of drinks to go around as well. Everything is set out perfectly in its own place and the sheer orderliness of it gives Richard some pleasure, even if short-lived. Schneider is the last to arrive, bearing a 1980 rosé Dom Perignon and a large Prinzregententorte for the birthday cake which only contribute to the lot, and Till is so pleased that he immediately insists that everyone gets a glass of the rosé. "Not saving it for yourself?" the drummer asks bemusedly even as he helps to pop the champagne and gets out the best glass for Till. "that's what people generally tend to do with Dom Perignon."  
  
"True, but I'm not the kind of person to withhold such a prize for myself. You all need to play along to my whims, anyway. I'm never going to be thirty-two again," Till grins, and pours everyone a glass. " _prosit_!"  
  
They all drink to him before sharing small toasts with each other and heading towards the buffet. It's lost amongst the general cheer and conversation in the room, but he's the only one who Flake doesn't give an audible toast to - the older man simply raises his glass without even really looking at him, drinks silently, and turns away. Richard stares after him, but not for long. All frustration at this point has been replaced with dread and guilt.  
  
 _So I've really been doing nothing but annoying him all along. Good job, Kruspe. Absolutely wonderful._  
  
He would apologize, but as stated before, he is terrible with apologies. That hasn't changed in the past week. People don't tend to change that quickly, for the better or worse.  
  
Richard's mood carries on through the rest of the evening. When engaged in conversation he gives it his all, but he's nowhere near as cheerful as he would have been without all of this business with Flake. It says something about his mood when Till asks him to help put Nele to bed halfway through and he feels more comfortable about doing this than participating in the actual party. Just as well that he's not the focus tonight, Till is - his subdued mood goes unnoticed by all, right until the clock strikes ten. "Thank you for coming," Till announces as he pours the last of the champagne into all of their glasses. "there's nowhere else in the world I'd rather have been in today, you've all been fantastic. Well. I certainly look forward to how the rest of this year's going to turn out!" he raises his glass, and the others follow suit. What with Till having been born so early in January, his birthdays double often as a celebration of the new year and what's yet to come.   
  
"To Rammstein," he calls.   
  
"To Rammstein!" they all repeat, followed by clinking their glasses together with a ' _prosit!_ '. Richard's glass makes the most contact with Till's - and Flake's, some of the other's champagne spilling lightly into his own glass, though the older man either doesn't notice or doesn't care. He thoughtfully downs his champagne as the others quickly finish up and begin to make preparations for leaving. "Risch, aren't you going?"  
  
"Hmm? Oh, I'm staying the night."  
  
"That's right," Till adds, leaning out from the kitchen with the tray of used glasses in his hand. "the spare bedroom's all ready for you, and I finally got rid of that old cabinet - you have more space now. Safe travels, Olli," he nods at the bassist, who's now putting on his hat and scarf. " _bis Tag._ I'm just going to check on Nele, Risch, if you could..."  
  
"Yes, of course," he stands up and rolls back his sleeves to help with the cleaning. "we've got it sorted. You have a good night, Olli."  
  
"All right. _Gute Nacht_."  
  
The singer nods and goes upstairs. Paul, who until now has just been listening to the conversation, finally speaks up from his position on the sofa. "Staying the night, eh?" he winks at the younger guitarist, who blushes without quite understanding why. "I'm only joking. See you tomorrow, Olli," he leans up on a slightly-drunken tiptoe to give Olli a hug, and waves him off at the doorway; when the bassist is out of sight, he closes the door and looks around the living room. "that was a good party - but I'm quite ready for bed. Flake?"  
  
Richard, not wanting to give the impression that he's aimlessly standing around listening to them, quietly slips towards the kitchen and busies himself via moving all the used plates and bowls into the sink. He is still paying attention to the conversation, however; the keyboardist has gotten up to fetch his coat and shoes. "Yes, Paul. Are you ready to go?"  
  
"Almost. Could you give me a moment - I need the bathroom."  
  
Flake nods, pulling on his coat and sweeping back his hair; his cheeks are faintly pink too from all the wine and champagne, but he's not acting drunk or even slightly tipsy otherwise. "Flake, a word with you," Schneider hurries towards him the instant Paul disappears into the bathroom. He's hastily pulling on his jacket, clearly wanting to get the 'talk' over and done with before he has to deal with the older guitarist. "I just wanted to ask you about something. _Tut mir leid,_ I'm not holding - you two - up, right?"  
  
"No. It's nothing to be sorry about, I know some people who are far _more_ of a piece of work," Flake says, and glances at Richard (peering at them from the doorway). When their gazes meet, the guitarist hurriedly avoids his stare and ducks back into the kitchen, biting his lip. "... but what did you want to ask me?"  
  
"I can't put off replacing my snare drum any longer. It detunes every two days, if not more frequently. Do you know somewhere with a deal on them, I'm hardly going to be paying half a thousand for one but they do need to be good-"  
  
Flake lets out a small 'hmm'. "I'm hardly an expert, I'm afraid, but I might know such a place - I delivered flowers there last month. If you could meet me around noon tomorrow at Alex, bitte, in front of _Neptunbrunnen_. I'll take you there."  
  
"At Alex. All right. Thank you so much, Flake."  
  
 _"Kein Problem."_  
  
Schneider calls up a quick goodbye to everyone, gives Flake's shoulder a squeeze, and heads out of the door just as Paul emerges. That's all Richard allows himself to hear before heading deeper into the kitchen, turning the sink on and beginning to do the dishes just so he won't have to hear them anymore; they could have already left or Till could be engaging them again in some idle conversation, he has no idea.   
  
"A piece of work," he repeats to himself. It makes him feel more sad than angry. _"Gott."_  
  
\-----  
  
The cuckoo clock in the living room has long since sung midnight by the time he and Till are done. The plates are put away and the kitchen table is sparkling clean again; they're both sitting on the living room sofa now, downing what is left of the wine that Olli brought, mostly enjoying the silence. That's something he's always admired in the older man, his capacity for _silence_ , to the extent that Richard occasionally regrets that he put Till in a position where he would always have to be singing or speaking. It's not so much of a problem because Till consented and seems happy about it, but it's still a lingering sentiment, regardless.  
  
"Penny for your thoughts?"  
  
"Hardly, they're worth more than that," Richard shoots back, but he's smiling. Till smiles back at him, putting down the glass; his lips are kissed red with the wine. "don't worry about it, it's nothing serious."  
  
"I'm always going to worry, Risch. That's just part of being an old man. But if you're sure-" he stretches contentedly, yawning. "-ahh. I'm going to bed. When do you plan on going, yourself?"  
  
"Now sounds about right, actually," his own glass clinks as he sets it down next to Till's. "and when do you want me out of the house?"  
  
The older man laughs and pats his shoulder. "Ideally never, but that wouldn't suit you. Feel free to stay as long as you want. Nightcap?"  
  
"No thanks. I've had enough alcohol for today."  
  
"All right. Good night, Risch."  
  
 _"Bis Tag."_  
  
Till turns off the living room light and goes upstairs. Richard follows suit and heads into the spare room, closing the door behind him; his feelings are in turmoil and he's mentally exhausted. He needs a reset. A pair of shorts and a very worn and soft shirt is lying on the bed - Richard's nighttime attire every time he stays over at Till's - and he puts them on before crawling into bed, groaning slightly as his back creaks on the mattress. There's very little he could want for now, except for solving the problem of Flake, getting in a full nine hours' sleep and getting himself a morning cigarette upon waking. Preferably in that order, and all in the next few hours.   
  
It's not a lot to want, when put in simple words like that. But words don't necessarily reflect the facts of the matter. _You two_ , he recalls Schneider saying as he contemplates the ceiling; surely it's not just him who's aware of the dynamics between Paul and Flake. _How does Paul do it?_  
  
With cheek kisses, actually living together, and over a decade of friendship on record. Richard huffs in frustration. These are not conditions that he can fulfill right now, when he needs it the most. Asking Paul for help is still an option, but only as a last resort. Because the older guitarist has a tendency to let onto most secrets except for the most important ones, and Richard has no guarantee that Paul will classify him seeking help with Flake's friendship as 'most important', Flake hearing about it is simply not a risk that he can take.  
  
He sighs and nuzzles into the blankets, wanting to drift off already so he can stop thinking about it. The blankets smell faintly of Till. Richard closes his eyes, imagining what it would be like to inform the singer of his dilemma; most likely he'd be told to keep out of Flake's affairs. He admonished Till about scribbling on the man's door, after all, so not leaving Flake alone would be hypocritical of him. He also imagines that Till would not be _delicate_ about telling him this, which wouldn't do much for his mood but might help to push him back into reality.  
  
The _reality_. What is the _reality_ , relevant to himself and Flake both, in particular?  
  
"There being six of us in this band, Flake and I included. Flake being in two jobs. One of his jobs being in the florist's. Him not liking me," he mumbles, hesitates, and continues. "... and... and him being justified in that because I wasn't very considerate of his interests."  
  
 _Then_ something inside him clicks, and he sits up again, staring hard into space as he puzzles it out. _Equal consideration of interests._ Apart from the occasional small questions, he has never actually tried to engage Flake in a conversation regarding flowers or floristry; despite being there on multiple occasions, he's managed to spectacularly ignore what is an essential part of the other's life. Being able to fully divorce that from the concept of Rammstein, just the way Flake wants it, is probably the key.   
  
_I need to shut up about Rammstein when he's working in the shop. Not even to imply it. Call it validating and considering his reality._  
  
Richard knows very little about flowers and wouldn't be able to sustain a meaningful conversation beyond inquiring names and details of certain plants now - but still, he can learn. It's his best shot. He thinks of Till's birthday flowers, set prettily atop the living-room windowsill as they perfume the air, its vase reflecting moonlight on the floor. Then he formulates a plan, simple but in perfect tune with what Flake is doing, and vows to try it out as soon as possible.  
  
\-----  
  
Two days later, he visits the florist at his usual time and makes straight for the counter. Flake frowns at him, but before he can actually say anything, Richard cuts him off briskly. "I'd like a rose."  
  
Pause. The keyboardist blinks, then takes off his glasses and begins to polish them mindlessly on his shirt; he does that when something unexpected happens. For someone so outwardly emotionless, Flake is actually fairly easy to read. "A _rose_?"  
  
"Just the one."  
  
There's another pause. Then the older man tugs on his gloves and lifts up the corner of the counter, beckoning him towards the front of the shop, all professional-like. "What colour? Do you want it wrapped, or with a message, perhaps..."  
  
Colour. If there is one thing that the guitarist has learnt in this shop so far, it is the importance of colour when it comes to choosing certain flowers. "Oh, not _yet_ ," Richard says mysteriously, giving Flake a perfectly polite and non-indicative smile. "that'd be moving a little too fast. Pink to start with. Without the thorns, _bitte_."  
  
Now he has Flake's full attention. The older man stares at him in utter bewilderment for a second or two; then he shakes his head, reaches forwards, hesitates, and picks out a well-formed pink rose. " _Ja?_ " Richard asks innocently, and gets another confused look in response. For the rest of the transaction, including carrying the rose back to the counter, dabbing away the moisture on its stem, and cutting off the thorns, Flake says nothing - a single Mark and a curt ' _Guten Abend_ ' is exchanged between them, and within a minute the younger man is walking along the pavement, flower in hand and an odd jumpy feeling in his stomach.  
  
Pink roses stand for admiration. He has no one to give this rose to, in full honesty, but he has gotten Flake interested in what he's doing. Sure, by the end of the night the keyboardist will have forgotten about this - Richard isn't so self-flattering as to think that he can engage him that quickly - but he'll come back, night after night, so that Flake will have no choice but to think about him and what he might be doing with those flowers. _Let him craft whatever story he wants,_ he thinks to himself as he twirls the rose in his hand, _the more elaborate the better. A Mark every night is worth it._  
  
He thinks about the expression Flake had: confused, vaguely troubled, and for once, curious. And then he has to smile.   
He doesn't entirely know where this plan is going, but he has a feeling that he'll be rewarded well if he continues with it.  
 _  
As long as he's always reminded of me at work._  
  
\-----  
  
It takes him over a week and a half to see further interest in his situation. Their interactions are short and practical - he doesn't loiter in the shop, he doesn't bother Flake while he's behind the counter, and he only speaks to him whilst with the band or in times of necessity. He also says very little about that he's buying the flowers for every time he goes, and Flake doesn't ask. Every now and then he comments shortly on 'feeling happy' and 'wanting to see where this goes'; combined with the pink roses that he buys, it isn't too hard for the keyboardist to put two and two together and assume that Richard is attempting to initiate a relationship with someone.   
  
The human mind is a strange thing, bizarrely indifferent to other minds around them; but once it perceives some kind of story or narrative that another mind is going through, it can't help but show interest. That's why postal workers are gentler with parcels in a child's handwriting, why wallets get returned more often if a photo of a baby is inside, why people pick up books at the used-book store that are filled with helpful scribblings in the margins. That is precisely the effect that Richard is hoping to induce in Flake, so that the older man has no choice but to take a personal interest in his business. That enables a true connection between them at last, which will hopefully push the older man to stay in the band.   
  
But it's not a good story if the same thing happens all the time. After ten daily visits to the florist's (all during Flake's shifts), on the eleventh, Richard deliberately comes at a much earlier time to collect his rose. Flake's shift is hours away, but he's been doing this long enough that everyone who works in the shop knows about him and his quest - there's no way that the older man won't find out that he's already come and gone.   
  
Whether he'd _care_ is a different gamble altogether. And he's in luck.  
  
The twelfth visit is made the day after the eleventh, at the usual time. He's whistling a tune to himself, coins jangling in his pocket, when he enters the shop and sees that Flake is behind the counter again. A quick look around - the coast is clear, they're alone - and he walks right up to the older man, who's busy giving him the cold shoulder. _So he knows, and he's annoyed. Excellent. "Guten Tag,"_ he says cheerfully. Flake starts, and looks up at him with a half-glare; he doesn't return the other's greeting, but stays in place. "the usual, Flake, if you'd please."  
  
"... The usual?" Flake repeats indignantly; the corner of his mouth twitches in annoyance even as he tries to process this statement. "the _usual!_ God _damn_ you, Kruspe! How am I to know what you mean by 'the usual' _now_ , when I wasn't there to look over the last one you bought? Do you mean a _pink_ rose? Or just a rose? Or flowers in general? What on earth do you _want?_ "  
  
Richard stifles a laugh. This is precisely what he predicted. He had the audacity to integrate himself into Flake's routine; now that he's gone and done so, the least he can do is to keep it up for a while. " _Komm,_ don't be like that," he coaxes, giving the other a gentle smile. "I see they've told you. I'd have sought you out if I could have, but I needed to be somewhere during your shift - and I still needed a rose, what was I to do? I didn't even know everyone would be so interested in what I was doing."   
  
The older man rolls his eyes. "And you think it's easy for us to ignore it when a man comes in and buys roses for over ten days in a row?" he mumbles. Much of the irritation has left him, however; Richard gave him a logical answer, he has no personal interest in prying any further, it works out. "... everyone likes to see how a love story pans out. _Das ist alles_."  
  
"Oh, this is a new one! Flake, you're interested too?"   
  
Flake's response to this is to give him a wide-eyed and incredulous stare for what seems like over a minute. It's slightly unnerving, but Richard is nothing if he can't play at the same game; he carries on looking back at the older man expectantly, keeping his expression open and as innocent as he can make it. Eventually the keyboardist looks away and takes off his glasses, furiously polishing them on his shirt before letting out a small sigh. "Neither of us need any more of this inane bantering. What can I do for you today?"  
  
"I asked for a pink rose yesterday, too, that's what I meant by 'the usual'," is Richard's gentle answer. Flake raises his eyebrows, but nods for him to continue, glad that he's filled in that piece of the puzzle at least. "today... well, hmm... you know, it's already the twelfth rose I'm giving to them, I want there to be _some_ progress. Can I get a colour other than pink this time?"  
  
Another twitch. This is yet another uncontrolled change to the routine. But because the guitarist is a customer, Flake can't really do anything about this one. He puts his gloves on, lifts up the corner of the counter, and beckons Richard over to the roses. It's still a little too cold for there to be much variety, but all the large vases are nevertheless filled with an impressive selection of colours. "... Which one would you like?"  
  
"Hmm," Richard glances towards the right, and points at the vase on the top corner. "those."  
  
The keyboardist follows his gaze, and looks at the roses in question, before staring back at him in disbelief. " _Really_? I... hmm. I don't mean to pry, but has this person done something wrong? Or are you angry at them?"  
  
"... No?"  
  
"So why on earth are you giving them a _yellow_ rose?"  
  
"Am I committing some great faux pas for doing that?" Richard asks back; he knows only the implications of the white, red and pink, which is - to his credit - still more than the average buyer of roses. He was really just choosing a colour at random, but this is not an opportunity to be missed, allowing Flake to 'teach' him and forging another connection. "what does that one mean?"  
  
The keyboardist frowns. "Many things, not necessarily all pleasant - _'jealousy_ ' or ' _dying love_ '. _Are_ you jealous?"  
  
"No, but what you've just said is exactly the opposite of what I want."  
  
"It really does depend on the person," Flake says, and frowns some more, rubbing lightly under his chin. "yellow roses can also be a gesture of friendship or platonic love. And I'm sure most people understand _all_ roses as an affectionate gesture, colour and meaning be damned. Still, why risk the ambiguity?"  
  
Frowning, Richard rubs his chin, looking conflicted. "... So what do you advise that I get?"  
  
"Beige, white, red, peach, they're all nice... lavender if you want something more unusual, ' _love at first sight_ '..."  
  
"Lavender sounds just right. It's too early for a red."  
  
Flake mulls over this - nods as if he were saying: _yes, Richard, now you're speaking my language_ \- and reaches out, this time pulling out several lavender roses and taking them straight to the counter. The younger man follows without asking questions. "I chose the five that looked the best," the keyboardist says as he arranges the flowers in a line and peers in carefully. "you still want just the one?"  
  
 _"Ja."_  
  
He eventually picks the one second from right; it hasn't been in bloom for long, and thus still looks half-budded, but that can only be an indicator of longer life. "There," he says as he clips away the thorns - pauses - then much to Richard's surprise (and slight satisfaction), he keeps on talking. "I hope they like it."  
  
"Oh, she will, I know she will," the guitarist immediately answers, grinning, taking the opportunity to feed Flake's imagination. "she liked the eleven roses that came before, after all. I want to make her happy."  
  
There is no _she_ \- though it's not too hard for Richard to attract a woman, that's not the point of this exercise - and he's actually been using the roses to build up a makeshift bouquet of sorts in his apartment, but it's a feasible enough story. Flake nods and hands over the rose, accepts the coin, and opens the register to deposit it as per routine. But clearly the events of the past ten minutes have had a great effect on him, for he doesn't wave off the guitarist with a simple ' _Guten Tag'_ like before. "It's nice to see such dedication. Quite romantic, actually. After last October..."  
  
 _Oh. Um._  
  
Richard hasn't actually thought about 'last October' for a while, it wasn't _that_ consequential to him; the fact that Flake even remembered is more shocking to him than the memory. He broke up with his then-girlfriend in October after a short and utterly dysfunctional relationship involving a great deal of immaturity (from both of them), lack of monogamy (from him) and stealing (from her). He had been devastated for all of a fortnight after moving on, assured by his friends that both of them were better off apart and that it wasn't going to work out anyway; he admittedly had been _very_ vocal about his situation regardless of where he was at the time, which is probably why Flake still remembers the incident and thinks that it had a stronger effect on Richard than it actually did.   
  
The whole thing did make him reconsider his views on love, and she did inspire a song or two in him, but overall it was mostly a learning experience than anything. However, the keyboardist doesn't know that, and the longer Richard goes without a response the more unsettled he looks. "I... _tut mir leid_ ," he finally speaks up, hastily avoiding the guitarist's eyes. "I shouldn't have..."  
  
"What? Oh no, I'm not offended! Because you are right, Flake, that was a _genuinely_ horrible time and I wasn't exactly being quiet about it," Richard waves off the beginnings of the keyboardist's apology with a reassuring chuckle. "no need to be sorry. Chalk it down to a bad match, sometimes people just aren't right for each other, you know?"  
  
Apart from not being the right one and stealing cash from him, she also stole two boxes of his pills. For him that had been _the_ absolute dealbreaker, less everything else. But at the same time, not even _Till_ knows about his dependency on drugs; he's not going to start with Flake.  
  
"Even so, it wasn't any of my business-"  
  
" _Doch!_ I was more surprised you still remembered, that was all. There aren't any hard feelings," he shakes his head. "and it _was_ a valuable experience. Maybe not the _best_ experience, but how do you get to know your own character if it's never tested in one way or another? I wasn't the best I could have been - and I know that now. There's nothing there to take offense at, Flake."  
  
He's taken aback at how easily those words come, but at the same time, he feels pleasure in them because he feels that he's being _honest_. Even better, Flake looks impressed as well, which is the effect he desired in the first place; his own peace of mind is a welcome extra. "I admire that," the keyboardist nods. "that's a very healthy attitude. _Sehr gut_."  
  
"I should hope so. But it does seem a shame," he shrugs and sighs, glancing at Flake to see if he has another reaction. He's quite enjoying coaxing those out of him. "when I think of her before things went to hell, she used to be a genuine keeper."  
  
"That is like saying that you don't want to discard your _Baumkuchen_ after it's gone stale, because before it was stale, it was delicious," Flake says coolly - and then hands him an extra rose. "and you're wise enough to move on. _Viel Glück_ to this endeavour, at least."  
  
Flake is an excellent baker. Richard doesn't know this yet, but he'll get used to the other's frequent baking-related metaphors soon enough. Regardless of that, though, surprises are surprises; Richard blinks as he accepts the rose and stammers out a ' _Danke_ ', feeling rather as if he'd been hit over the head before managing to get a hold on himself. "Good night," he continues with a polite nod, and when he receives a nod in return, he takes that as the cue to make his exit. Flake says nothing, but even as the door swings shut behind Richard, he can almost swear that the older man was _smiling_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yet another chapter in the turbulent relationship between Richard and Flake. This Richard I find to be more timid and sensible than the one in 'Silence' - but everything was peachy-keen during the early days in that 'verse, which is definitely not the case here. The most important thing for me is that camellias have been introduced, the very same ones in the title - but I won't give away more than that just yet! 
> 
> Some notes:
> 
> * Bertolt Brecht, one of Till's major influences, and another major 20th-century German poet, Rainer Maria Rilke, are mildly conversation/plot-significant. They will keep reocurring. I only recently got a hold of his collected poems myself with much difficulty; much recommended, especially for authentic insight of WWII and postwar Germany.  
> * I messed around with Herzeleid tour dates a little. I don't really consider the handful of gigs they had before August 1995 as part of the 'tour' - Herzeleid came out then, they could not have been promoting an album that didn't exist prior to that time. [They appear to have been playing gigs during January 1995](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Herzeleid_Tour), however, and I've left them out for the sake of story flow. Their manager, Emu, was also met in December 1994, though I glossed over the exact date (31st).  
> * Flake mentions that members of Rammstein did scribble ['come to the Rammstein rehearsal'](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y52DDDmlVdw) and words along those lines on his door during the earlier days.  
> * 1980 was indeed a vintage year for rose Dom Perignon champagne. Their entire philosophy revolves around not making champagne during 'weak' years, it'd be wrong of me to just make it up.   
> * 'Alex' is (Berliner) shorthand for '[Alexanderplatz'](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexanderplatz). '[Neptunbrunnen'](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neptunbrunnen) is the name of a famous fountain there.  
> * Yellow roses do, or at least used to, carry connotations of jealousy and dying love. Lavender can mean 'love at first sight' also. But generally, a single rose of any colour is considered a gesture of devotion and gratitude. It's when you start playing by high numbers that you may get more complex and mixed messages.  
> * It's going to be _really awkward_ if I meet Flake one day and it turns out that he doesn't like baking/isn't a good baker.
> 
> The second chapters of my long fics, and often the third, tend to have the most infodumping. This is probably because I like drawn-out introductions before throwing in the exposition and letting the meat of the story unfold. At least there was actual progress in the two's relationship! Hoping that this can be a 6-7 parter but not hugely more.


	3. 03

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer: I do not know any of the members of Rammstein, this is strictly a work of fiction and I do not profit from nor claim to represent true aspects of their lives in this story.**

**Kamelie Liebt Mich (03) - A Rammstein Fanfiction  
**  
Pairing: Richard/Flake  
  
\--------------------------------  
  
"There you are. Softening your approach?"  
  
"Mmhmm, I don't exactly want to overwhelm her."  
  
"That's very considerate of you. One Mark, if you could."  
  
Richard hands over the money and receives his peach-coloured rose in return. Its scent is cold and fresh, drops of water still clinging to the inner petals and stems from when Flake changed the vase water earlier in the afternoon. He only buys roses during Flake's shifts now, the older man having (however grudgingly) accepted him into his routine and no other worker's; going astray at this point would offend the man more. " _Danke._ Say, Flake, don't you finish around seven o'clock today?"  
  
"Half six, or thereabouts. Why?"  
  
"Try staying behind for a little longer today. Maybe fifteen minutes or so."  
  
The older man looks at him questioningly. "... And why's that?"  
  
Richard winks. "You'll find out."  
  
He's arranged for two potted orchids to be sent to a friend's house in Weissensee, to be hand-delivered at 7pm; Flake's shift finishes at half-six, the other worker takes over straight afterwards, and the owner is off that day - leaving the keyboardist as the only one free to make the delivery. Richard has asked his friend to tip whoever comes to the door generously. And of course, Flake needs to pass by the area to get back home, anyway. He'll help Flake earn his living, all right. He gets to check the results in two days' time, when he wanders in again for his rose, pleading ignorance - the keyboardist initially mentions nothing about it, but when Richard suggests that he stay behind the counter a little longer after his shift again (having recommended the shop to another friend), he immediately picks up on the hidden implications.  
  
"I'll get right to it," he says, and Richard grins, pleased with himself. "more exotics?"  
  
"Birthday bouquet, I think."  
  
"The exact details must be somewhere. _Danke_."  
  
From then on, and during the weeks and months to follow, Richard continues to help out with orders, and Flake continues to not question his motives. It all works out.  
  
Soon it's the end of January and Richard discards the Christmas bouquet - the arrangement that started it all - for it has entirely wilted. He still has most of the flowers that he bought for himself: plenty of pink roses, the two lavender ones, five peach, and a blue one he bought simply because he liked the look of it. He chuckles to himself as he carefully nudges that one back into place, remembering that he had to be completely honest about his intentions when he bought it, for Flake hadn't quite understood at first why Richard would gift a flower meaning _the unattainable_ to someone who'd been receptive so far. Amongst the keyboardist's explanations regarding blue roses was also included the fact that it's easy to dye flowers artificially, and Richard would be lying if he said that he hasn't entertained the thought of buying a bunch of white roses and food colouring to try it out for himself.  
  
Black might be a good one to begin with. That would certainly look very dramatic. Either that, or a mixed shade. But he's going to need more vases to pull it off and he still has his story to maintain, so perhaps not right now.  
  
He's adjusted his schedule so that his visits fall anywhere from a few hours to a full day before the band is due to meet up. This does mean the occasional day or two flies by without the two of them meeting, but it's miles better than coming off as him following Flake around obsessively. Every visit is accompanied by him buying a rose and making small conversation with Flake, and much to his relief, their relationship has progressed to the point where the keyboardist no longer minds talking to him as much. There have even been times when Flake offered music-related ideas to him without prompt, despite his prior assertion that he would not 'mix between jobs'. Another month or two and he'll be golden.  
  
Besides, Richard has been finding these conversations regarding gardening and floristry surprisingly interesting. It's certainly not to an extent that he'd be interested in working in the field - he doesn't even want a garden later in life, let alone maintain one - but there's no doubting the fact that whenever he walks into the shop, the scent of flowers calm him now rather than overwhelm. His presence is received with far more warmth from everyone who works there (what with him now being a 'regular'), so he can stay and relax for longer in relative comfort as well. (Over the next few months, during those occasional long, solitary days when none of his other friends can be reached, Richard will become immensely glad for this refuge.) Flake is more at ease around him, actively telling him about the new flowers that have been introduced into the shop, allowing him behind the counter to sit down sometimes, and letting the younger man watch him creating his beautiful flower arrangements. Flake has a fantastic eye for aesthetics; quite a surprise, because he's not the type to follow fashion or admire beauty openly. Flake barely even pays attention to _other_ florist shops when he's walking past one. But he always seems to know which flowers suit which occasion and what colours are appropriate, even if none of that has actually been specified, creating outwardly-simple but very elegant bouquets within an hour or two. Richard can't figure it out. He tries asking Flake about his technique one day as the other's collecting flowers for a porcelain-vase arrangement, assuming that he might tell him about where or who he learnt the art from; what he gets instead is a long, blank stare followed by several minutes of silent contemplation.  
  
"I'm not sure how to answer you," is what Flake finally says, slotting a long stalk of thistle amongst the flowers. "I never learnt out of a book, didn't take classes, and no one taught me, if you're expecting something along those lines. There's no technique that I can _name_. But I've seen plenty of flowers in my life, I know roughly which colours go together and which don't under any circumstances. You wouldn't throw orange and teal together on a base of white, for one, and you most certainly don't mix random colours together and hope for the best. I think of beautiful things, and go by what feels right - I just don't know what _else_ there might be to it."  
  
"What kind of beautiful things?"  
  
"Oh. More flowers. Rolling hills. An ice-cold glass of milk after a long day. Universal healthcare. _Sozialismus_."  
  
More discussion along those lines can only end in a long and uninteresting argument, so Richard sighs and leaves it at there. But when back at the privacy of his own home he thinks about it a little more, and concludes that Flake must have a very pronounced sense of taste, even if it's not always being shown. There's no sin in that.  
  
And that's how things go on for a while; Richard has accumulated around twenty-five roses of varying colours and (finally) another vase when a significant development occurs in the band. He is the first one to get the news from their manager, early on a Tuesday morning, to pass onto all of the bandmates - they have been signed on to a record label and have been given funding and a deadline. They're set to record their first full-length album, to be released sometime that year.  
  
_It's finally happening._  
  
It's a shame that it happens to be Valentine's Day and the band isn't set to be meeting in person, but nevertheless Richard calls up everyone with the good news. Olli and Schneider answer straight away and join in his rejoicing; Till's goes to the answering machine and he leaves a message; he doesn't manage to reach Paul on the first try, but the older guitarist calls back a few minutes afterwards and cheers through the phone. "Oh, that's fantastic," he's saying, voice light and chirpy as ever. "when are we going to begin recording?"  
  
"Next month, he said. We should have most of our songlist ready, if not all, by then. Certainly by April."  
  
"That's plenty of time. Oh, wait until Flake hears about this, he's definitely roped in _now_ for sure!"  
  
Richard adjusts the receiver against his ear thoughtfully. "... Is he at work?"  
  
"Mm, you know what day it is. He's probably getting swamped with customers, he said he'd be back late," he can't help but feel that Paul sounds slightly dejected, though it's hard to tell. "but I'll try to call him up around lunch at the shop - or tell him when he comes home. Either way, he _is_ going to know by the end of today."  
  
"All right, Paul. I'll leave it up to you."  
  
The phone is hung up and Richard lounges back on his couch, feeling very happy indeed. He's filled with an urge to just grab his guitar and get straight to work; that would be reaching too far ahead of himself, though, so he barely manages to refrain, instead making some notes on what to do next. They need a clear, promotional image before they can even think about their music, for sure. But aesthetics, much like their music, are best discussed with the rest of the band. If only he could see them all now!  
  
Richard makes himself a hot cup of coffee and fetches a notepad, writing down the names of all the songs that they have (in complete form or otherwise). Around fifteen so far, half of which they're confident about; they will keep on writing more and eliminating the weaker ones through the next few months, but this isn't a bad start at all. "Call up Till... Paul... old friends," he mumbles, scribbling a reminder. "... if they've got any old material... might be able to make use of some."  
  
If his old bandmates in Orgasm Death Gimmick are fine with it, he might be able to adapt some of their old songs into something brand new. The same goes for the others as well - it's likely that Paul or Flake might have something, they had the most success out of all six of them in the past and this would give them a chance of re-live some of the good old times-  
  
\- his pen pauses in mid-air. _Flake._ What would he even say about this? His potential reaction didn't seem as serious when he was talking to Paul, but it's really not an easily-dismissable matter. Flake's most definitely not walking out on them, for making at least one album and putting in request for the funding was something all of them agreed on, but his behaviour might prove to be of some difficulty depending on how things are. And of course, just because the keyboardist was fine with _thinking_ about an album, that doesn't mean that he's going to carry on being agreeable while it's _actually_ being recorded.  
  
_One thing at a time.  
_  
The guitarist frowns down at the page, irritated that he can't predict what might come next. So far he's been in steady and peaceable terms with Flake, but he can't foresee what these changes will do to his relationship with Paul or Till or anyone _else_ , let alone-  
_  
\- one thing at a time, Kruspe!_  
  
With much reluctance he closes the notepad again and goes out to the balcony for a smoke break. It's only when he stands there watching the smoke drift upwards into the sky and the cigarette ash glowing faintly as he shakes it down to earth that he works out a compromise within himself: he'll leave the wider issue of Flake staying be for the time being, but because he can't wait until the end of the day to find out what the keyboardist thinks of it, he'll drop in at the florist's and ask outright. Sometime after midday it is, and he'll make a larger purchase to keep in line with his story.  
  
It ends up being the case, ultimately, that he meets Flake further down the line than to his liking. Richard has allowed for the Valentine's crowd to disperse, figuring that he's not going to get in a single word with Flake if he goes at the height of the excitement; but he makes his way down to the shop around four o'clock and lots of people are still milling around in there. At this rate Flake is going to be too tired and irritated to even want to deal with him.  
_  
... What to do..._  
  
Giving up is not part of Richard's vocabulary. Not so easily, anyway. He can give it more time, so he takes a leisurely stroll across the road, a few shops down, where there's a small bakery and cafe; the perfect place to wile an hour or two away with a piece of cherry pie and a cup of espresso. Combined with a discarded newspaper that he takes from a neighbouring table, he manages to stick it out until the customers have largely disappeared from the shop, upon which he tips the waitress and heads back. Shelves and display tables have been emptied out significantly, footprints litter the floor, and Flake is looking weary and out of breath even as he raises a hand to the guitarist in greeting. Richard can't blame him.  
  
"The _Konditorei_ across the road got a great deal of business," Flake explains, sounding a little hoarse from the exertion. "us and them both. I'm sorry, we're all out of pink and white..."  
  
He contributed 'business' to said _Konditorei_ too. Funny how things work out. "Really? I'd have thought you'd run out of red. That's what I was most worried about."  
  
The keyboardist shakes his head. "We knew that would be the case if we didn't stock up. We have too _many_ , if anything, they all need to go. So today I can offer you bouquets of twelve and above, but nothing smaller."  
  
"A bouquet it is, then! It's Valentine's Day after all, I'll take some of the red ones off your hands."  
  
Flake takes him over to the rose section and counts out all of the red roses they have; exactly fifty-two altogether, including both the cherry and the dark red. "That does kind of work out," Flake muses as he gazes at them, rubbing lightly at his chin. "can you take thirteen at the _very_ least? Thirteen in each bouquet yields four, and we'd be able to sell them off cleanly if we're in luck. But I wouldn't protest you taking more."  
  
"I'm fine with thirteen."  
  
"Dark red or bright red at the center?"  
  
And then a new idea springs into mind. "Bright red, _bitte._ Maybe some _Gipskraut_ in between?"  
  
"The best kind of filler. I was about to offer you some, too," the keyboardist grabs a handful of baby's breath on the way to the counter. Looking over his shoulder, he gives Richard a tiny, fleeting smile. "you've picked up quite a few things during your visits here. Just for that, I won't charge you any extra for these."  
  
_You're impressed by the strangest things_ , Richard is tempted to say, but he makes do with an amused glance in Flake's direction and pays attention to how he's tying the bouquet instead. The older man lays out the roses on the counter, quickly clipping off the thorns and cutting the stems before mingling them with strands of baby's breath; the spray of white flowers go mostly around the edges, each rose alternated by their differences in shade and highlighted by one bright-red rose in the middle. If not for the heart-patterned paper being wrapped around the bouquet, it might have even looked fit for a bride to carry. The arrangement is certainly not the most complicated thing Flake has ever created in front of him, but it's lovely nonetheless. "Did Paul call you earlier?" he asks, eyes still on the flowers; the keyboardist pauses in the middle of sweeping up discarded leaves and thorns, glancing at his face. "I know thinking about this is probably the last thing you need right now, but..."  
  
"The album. He told me all about it, yes," pause. "... _excellent_ news. _Sehr geil._ I was glad to hear it."  
  
This affirmation pleases Richard so much that he beams at Flake with no care to how childlike he might seem. The older man expressing his approval so quickly is not something to be taken lightly, and although Flake throws him a questioning glance, he doesn't seem to consider Richard's reaction as odd. " _Da._ Eleven and a half Marks, then, _bitte_."  
  
Richard pays and waits for the change before taking up the bouquet. " _Danke,_ Flake, I really appreciate it," he says, and jostles the roses a little. "though before I go - can I ask you something?"  
  
_"Ja?"_  
  
"Which is the prettiest one out of all of those, you think? I don't really have an eye for those things, you know, you're the one living your life in beauty. I trust your judgement."  
  
Flake stares, then stammers; a blush rises to his cheeks, and disappears as quickly as it came. Richard watches him fondly, a smile playing about his lips. "I, um..." he immediately points at the one in the very middle. "... that one. No blemishes, clean petals, about to fully open... I mean all of them are in good condition, but..."  
  
"But _you_ think that one's the best! And that's really all that matters," the guitarist laughs, and without further ado, plucks out the rose and hands it to Flake. "because that one's for you, for all you've helped me with in the past month. You deserve the best. _Tschüss!_ "  
  
He half expects Flake to be more irritated at him for messing with his arrangement, so to avoid that he quickly walks out of the shop before the keyboardist can call him back. A glance through the window as he leaves, however, shows only a very stunned Flake staring down at his single rose; satisfied and wanting to get home as fast as possible, Richard makes for the U-Bahn and rides it back. The bouquet goes in the new milky-white vase that he bought, and he moves it next to his other vase for effect, removing a few wilted flowers and nodding in approval. His apartment is fit for a king, as far as he's concerned. Smiling, Richard bends his head to appreciate the scent of the new bouquet. At the height of their bloom, the roses smell fruity-sweet and intense, offset by the muted scent of the other roses nearby and the faint talc of baby's breath. "Lovely," he says quietly to himself and chuckles.  
  
If he keeps this up, providing he has the money to do so, his apartment will soon begin to resemble the florist shop; he thinks of Flake and wonders what he's doing, whether he's forgotten all about the guitarist's 'present' and focusing on helping out lovestruck couples as he's been doing for the entire day. It's quite possible - it'd be nice to be remembered from time to time, but he knows by now that Flake is not particularly touched by such gestures, so there's no sense in putting too much mind to it.  
  
When he drops in at the shop again the next morning, though, he is (very pleasantly) proven _wrong_. Flake's shift hasn't begun yet, but he steps in for long enough to peer over the counter. The office door happens to be open, and what he sees there makes him stare before he grins in triumph; Flake has put the rose in water within a small crystalline vase, centerpiece on the windowsill, even displacing the begonia to the side. And later on in the day, when he returns to the shop with the silver coin in hand, the keyboardist looks up - _smiles_ \- and hands over an already-chosen and wrapped red rose. "From now on I'll save one for you," he says, shaking his head when Richard offers the Mark. "if it's going to be a rose that you want. Any time. And _nein_ , there's no need to pay. It's the least I can do for support."  
  
Progress.  
  
\-----  
  
For the following month to come, Richard experiences the most amount of peace he's felt since starting the band. Flake is no longer the significant worry on his mind that he used to be and everyone is on their very best behaviour, at once anxious but exhilarated about what future might be waiting for them. Band sessions now focus on other things besides collaborating on their sound - through practical discussions, they are slowly working their way up to a higher tier of coexistence, cementing themselves into their roles and figuring out who's good for which things. They're a fair democracy, always making time to hear each other out and able to consider anywhere from two to six different points of view. It's seldom that all six of them spontaneously come to the same conclusion about anything, after all.  
  
Rammstein could never have been a product of the Western Bloc. Richard is realizing that more strongly than ever.  
  
They settle on their aesthetics early on; bold and simple is the key. Experiments with some more complex outfits and designs will eventually be allowed, but they'd be damned if they couldn't be _practical_ first and foremost. They already know where they're meant to be whenever they're on stage, so they decide to make use of those relative positions when their photos are being taken; and what this implies is that the two guitarists and Till should always be near the front. Till's also meant to be taking up center position, becoming the official face of the band, and everyone else is more okay with this than he himself is.  
  
"Well, you all voted that I should be at the center, so I guess that's where I'm always going to be. Seriously, though. I'm not even _handsome_ , I don't know what you guys hope to get out of me."  
  
" _Quatsch!_ Till, you're handsome enough, and this isn't about us wanting to get something special out of you. You're the _vocalist_. Who do you think is going to get the most attention out of all of us?"  
  
Till shakes his head, stubbing his half-smoked cigarette out on the ashtray distractedly. "I'm not arguing with you. I'm just saying it could have been better if I were more good-looking. I don't know, Flake, what do _you_ think? Am I what you'd call handsome?"  
  
"No," Flake says bluntly as he sips at his beer. "but neither am I. That has nothing to do with your character as a human being. As long as we're all clear on that."  
  
"Oh, don't I know it," Till laughs. He holds up his bottle, clinking it against the keyboardist's own. "no offense taken, Flake. I was more worried that you'd say _yes_."  
  
Till has never been particularly confident on his looks. Flake, however, is that one person who he would infinitely prefer to hear 'the truth' from instead of a flattering lie. Till will interpret the day the keyboardist compliments his looks as a sign of the coming apocalypse, for all Richard knows.  
  
_"Die Wahrheit ist ein Chor aus Wind, kein Engel kommt um euch zu rächen-"_  
  
Speaking of apocalypses.  
  
_"Diese Tage eure letzten sind-"_ Till turns the page briefly, his pen going tap-tap on the desk. "- hmm. That doesn't sound as good when I recite it. It works in song, trust me. At least the next line fits with the proper meter."  
  
Flake nods next to him, looking over the music for it in turn. This is their fifth most clearly defined song, and every part except for the lyrics are complete, so it's likely going on the album. "I believe you. Though I can't help but wonder if there's something _deliberate_ about this, Till. You just _know_ this is going to anger some people."  
  
"I'd like you to tell me what is out there that won't anger anyone in the world," the singer inclines his head, though, indicating that Flake has hit upon a valid point. "but you're right in that I want to provoke, though it's not the heaviest topic I've had in mind recently. I honestly think the media will find this too _straightforward_ compared to some of the other things I've got written in my notebook. If this song makes it onto the album, of course."  
  
"Oh, it's a fine song. Fantastic guitar work. I thought you were apathetic to religion, though."  
  
"That doesn't mean that I never think about its influence on our culture. The Christian God to me comes across as inexplicably sadistic," Till says grimly. "if humans were indeed made in God's image I suppose that explains a great deal about us, such as our ability to both inflict suffering and feel tremendous suffering, especially over having made other people miserable. And yet we _keep on doing it_. It all adds up to such an inexplicable guilt-based culture."  
  
"Wouldn't you agree that that was basically the point of God, Till?" is the keyboardist's thoughtful, quiet reply. "he isn't God because he deserves to be, or because we like him, or even because we can understand his motivations for doing anything. 'I am that I am', indeed. We can fault each other as human beings because we're the same species, and the way theology stands, we must acknowledge being flawed _in comparison to God_. But he himself can't be faulted - I don't know if it's because he can do no wrong at all, but I do think we're meant to understand that the capacity for blame is outside the concept of him altogether, no matter what horrendous catastrophe his infinite will inflicts on earth. When someone falls from a building and dies, you don't blame the ground for not being soft enough to catch him unharmed, or gravity for making him fall. God's like that. He just _is_ , whether we like it or not. You might as well be blaming the laws of thermodynamics or magnetism."  
  
"Do you even _believe_ in God?"  
  
"Of course not. What gave you _that_ idea?"  
  
Flake is stern, thoughtful, quite fussy - and yet never to the point of insane perfectionism. (That's more Richard's job, and at this point in time, this isn't an overbearing tendency within him.) He's fond of playing the Devil's advocate, outwardly appearing contrary to what the rest of the band agree with, adding certain dimensions to ideas that they might not have considered otherwise. Truly a valuable asset to the band.  
  
All this does come with a caveat. The bad news is that even if Flake threw down everything and walked out right now, leaving his spot instantly free for someone else, it's probably too late to replace him. The production of the album is going too smoothly, and they've become a little too reliant on the man's improvisations. Changing that would mean scrapping most of what they have so they can alter the sound of the band - many bands have experimented with their sound, it's hardly impossible to pull off, but now is an absolutely _terrible_ time for it.  
The good news is that whilst Flake hasn't said anything, he's not _acting_ like he wants to leave. This isn't saying a lot; Flake didn't want to leave Feeling B either, having been devoted enough to that band to think Rammstein hopeless and immature at the start. But that loyalty never stopped him from leaving without a word and taking a vacation in Greece, right in the middle of producing their third-and-last album, just shy of two years ago. It's entirely feasible that he can gone one day, whether for good or to return later on, and no one would be able to do a thing about it.  
  
And that just won't do.  
  
They must keep Flake in the band until at least the end of summer, when the deadline for their first album is. That means no walk-outs or unexpected, wordless absences at all. There's not much they can do except to trust him, though Richard also decides to scale back on constantly reminding Flake of his presence. Now is not the time to introduce strange new situations that force the keyboardist to interact with him (and by proxy, the band). He should go steady, respect the other's routine and make him feel appreciated, and hopefully in the longer term this will completely ensure his status as the sixth member of the band.  
  
Richard's way of doing this is contrary to his usual eager disposition, but it is manageable. He keeps arranging orders for Flake and drops in according to his usual schedule, careful to keep all mentions of the band off their conversation unless it's relevant or the other initiates it. Since the Valentine's bouquet he's also toned down his purchases a little, figuring that he doesn't want to come off as obsessive towards his imaginary love interest; the keyboardist is eventually going to find that off-putting, the idea of heaping flowers on someone until they give way. So he transitions into taking flower at the most two or three times per week - and not just roses, either. He's ventured beyond the common ones such as tulips, roses and daisies now, asking Flake for advice and ending up with such delights as the wisteria or the peony. It's quite wonderful, all the things that the language of flowers can connotate, going beyond affection to conveying messages just as complex as the written word.  
  
Flake admires a good adventurer. It works out to the guitarist's advantage.  
Thinking of all of this, he grins to himself as he pores over their newly-finished copy of 'Wollt Ihr Das Bett in Flammen Sehen?', plucking lightly at his guitar strings to test out a chord or a note that he's not quite sure of; nothing is off-base from what he can hear. Over two months' worth of on-and-off effort since December has perfected this piece to the point they've decided to open their album with it. He glances slyly at Till's room, where he knows that Flake's helping to organize some books, and back down at the sheets. "E-flat," he mumbles, and quietly plucks the corresponding note. "D. Hmm."  
  
These two notes make up the chorus of this song, and with it, the assertion of their identity - of this band.  
Smirking, he begins to play his part of this particular segment; and when he reaches the vocal part and hollers the refrain into the mic, he makes sure to sing _both_ notes as a D.  
  
_"Ramm-stein!_ "  
  
_"Wrong!"_ Flake immediately shouts from the other room. Richard bursts out laughing. All is good and well.  
  
Soon it is late March, lilac flowers are in season and the time Emu warned them about comes to pass; they are to begin recording. Till and Richard have to give a brief statement informing the recording label of their objectives, and shortly after that, they're also going to be working on some promotional photos of the band. Everyone but Flake seems nervous and excited about it - he's going about his life as usual, hours spend idly looking after flowers and turning up to planned band sessions as if nothing has changed since last year. It's quite fascinating how he keeps turning up despite having an apparently-punishing schedule, and Richard finally has to ask him about it one day, unable to keep his curiosity at bay for any longer. "Remember what I asked you months ago? About how you find the time to do everything in your life?" Flake nods in response and Richard swings his legs lightly from his chair. The shop has a back door leading outdoors and into a small rectangular space, surrounded on all four sides by walls and buildings; certain stock and the camellia shrubs are kept here during days of sunshine, and this is where the two of them are now. "you told me then that the exact details weren't any of my business. Is that still the case?"  
  
The older man tilts his head in thought. "... It depends," the camellias need watering today; they don't need much of it, but Flake's pride (and possibly job security) lies on keeping them healthy. He lifts up each pot, muscles straining slightly on his upper arms as he removes the drainage trays beneath them and stacks them up. When asked whether he wants help, he shakes his head and keeps on working. "I'm still hardly about to tell you the story of my life. No one _needs_ to hear that. But do be reassured that I'm not overworked."  
  
"It's not wearing on you? I mean, are you happy like this?"  
  
"... Happy," Flake repeats. "am I _happy_. What an interesting choice in words."  
  
That's all he says for a very long time. The guitarist waits, unsure whether to interrupt - _well, does that mean that you aren't happy?_ \- or to let Flake be, as it's not clear whether he's thinking of an answer or ignoring the question. After changing out all the drainage trays, Flake puts new ones at the bottom of each pot before reaching for the watering can; a large, surprisingly light one with a tarnished silvery tone. He tilts the can atop the first camellia shrub for only a second or two before pulling back, watching the drops of water run down the glossy leaves and soaking into the soil. "... What you and I mean by ' _happiness_ ' is probably quite different," he speaks up only then, startling Richard. "it's harder for me to judge individual instances of happiness, as it were, that's why I'm having trouble answering you. Care to hear me out for a while? It's going to take a while to explain."  
  
"Fire away."  
  
" _Eudaimonia_ ," a new, mysterious-sounding word, the way Flake pronounces it - ' _oy-dai-mo-nia_ ' with strong emphasis on the third syllable - nevertheless carries a pleasant air to it. (It is not until much later in life that Richard will read up on this concept himself, and realize that the ' _eu'_ ought to be pronounced as 'you'.) "that's what I think of as happiness. Pleasure. _Flourishing_. Were you taught about Aristotle when you were in school?"  
  
"Not really...?"  
  
"Neither was I. That was probably the norm. Couldn't let their citizens know too much about the world, could they."  
  
_This is different,_ Richard remarks mentally as he glances sidelong at Flake; what with the older man being _Ostalgie_ personified into a dry-witted and old-fashioned package, he never expected to hear something so critical from him. But mostly he's just baffled by the tangent until Flake begins to explain in depth. "How can I put this in words - well, Richard, do you think that there's something _special_ about humankind? I don't mean a purpose for being on earth. Something that makes us fundamentally _us,_ instead of rather an animal, mineral or plant."  
  
"Something special about us? Like - _self-awareness_ and things like that?"  
  
"Mmh. Close. Of course it's not something people all agree with. Aristotle, though," he moves onto the second plant. "he thought our capacity to reason set us apart from every other being in the world. ' _Function'_ , that's how he would have put it. Just like a knife's function is to cut, our function has to involve some kind of reason. Now, if a knife was dull and didn't cut things properly, would you feel comfortable about saying that it wasn't a very good knife?"  
  
Richard nods wordlessly. It's not a complicated explanation by any means, but he's still not sure where Flake is going with this.  
  
"And so it follows that if we weren't very good at being reasonable, we wouldn't be very good at being human."  
  
"I guess so, yes."  
  
"That's basically the gist of it. Aristotle thought that you couldn't have a good life without reason. Improving your capacity for reasoning therefore directly improves your life - and he thought that there were certain virtues that help you even further. Courage. Justice. Temperance. Friendship. And so on," the watering can's run out of water at this point, and Flake goes to refill it from a nearby hose. "there are too many of those to list off and there's a lot of other antiquated ideas that he had that I don't agree with, but I think he hit the nail on the head with this one. Aristotle also said that too _much_ virtue is just as dangerous as too little - working exactly enough is good, but overworking isn't. Having a pleasant night out with your friends is good, but getting completely drunk and hungover isn't. No excess, is the key. Bascially, _eudaimonia_ is a consolidation of all of that - it's about the quality of your life as a whole, moderating and nourishing yourself so that you can be the _ideal_ human being. You have a great deal of _eudaimonia_ in your life, you're a happy person."  
  
The guitarist frowns. "Is that something you or anyone else can track? How would you know whether you were happy _now_?"  
  
"Well, you don't. You _can't._ Not until you're dying," Richard stares at him. "think of life as a tree, Richard. You can feed it, water it, give it enough light, and it'll grow. But you have to moderate those things, you can't give too much or too little or it'll die. You can also pinpoint individual instances of you watering it, pruning it or giving it other nutrients to grow as well - but it makes no sense to say that because you watered that tree _once_ , it must be flourishing, or that it's a 'good' tree. You're going to need to continue tending to it, and even then you can't make a final assessment on whether that tree _really was a good tree_ until it dies or is cut down. You maintain a good balance until the end, and then you start making the big judgements."  
  
"..."  
  
"Happiness is like that for me," the keyboardist continues. His hands are speckled with drops of water. "it's not just to do with how I _feel_ \- my health, my friendships, the things I choose to do or not do in life. So that's why I can't tell you whether I'm a happy man right now. I can't judge that by virtue of me being amused or content at a single, particular point in time. What I've made of my life as a whole is what matters, I think. Something I'll be proud of when I'm dying," he smiles wistfully. "regardless of how many individual instances of joy or misery I might have suffered - if I can feel genuine pride and satisfaction as I look back on my life on my deathbed - why, I would have had a _wonderful_ life, Richard, and I wouldn't be afraid to say it. That's what I want."  
  
The other's voice has remained very steady and gentle throughout this, almost a recitation instead of a lecture or even an explanation. Nothing in his tone implies that Richard should agree with him, but no argument is being invited, either, and as a result of that the younger man only sit there and mull over what he said in silence, feeling rather stunned. "You look perplexed," the older man says after a couple of minutes, and - Richard doesn't know whether he's seeing things - his eyes glint a particularly lovely shade of glazed-blue, highlighted by the sunshine. "an overly long explanation for what was meant to be a simple answer, I imagine. Please do keep in mind that I _did_ understand what you meant originally when you asked whether I was happy. I get carried away sometimes."  
  
"So I did ask a valid question, only I haven't put it in the right terms."  
  
Flake chuckles. "Mm. If you meant whether I'm stressed out by recent developments, the answer is no. I'm content _now_. That's what you were looking for?"  
  
"Yes. Thank you, Flake," then he hesitates; he could start talking about something else, but there's something lingering about the topic that he can't yet let go. "... have you always been interested in thinking about those things?"  
  
"Not at all. But it's also my lot in life to have been born in this country, this land that has birthed so many _Dichter und Denker_ , who were in turn influenced by countless thinkers before them. Now that they aren't being censored to hell and back, why _wouldn't_ you read up on them occasionally to expand your worldview? It's not a world for the narrow-minded any more."  
  
Why not, indeed. Flake has left it a rhetorical question, but it's something the younger man keeps on thinking about for quite a long time. Arguably Richard has had more urgent, practical matters in his life than the other ever needed to deal with, matters that no amount of reading could have prepared him for; but then it's hard to argue that he would be _disadvantaged_ for having some philosophy in his life. He's just making a mental note to ask Till whether he can help him out when Flake speaks up again, changing the subject entirely. "What are your prospects for Rammstein, Richard? Realistically?"  
  
"Prospects up until when? How long are you talking?"  
  
" _Ach._ I hadn't thought of that," a shrug. "... I suppose I mean _overall_. I want to know where we _think_ we are, all six of us, seeing as that we're most definitely heading in a different direction - we ought to work towards the same general idea, _nein?_ How do you think our album will be received, what's going to happen during tours, what impression do you think we'll make upon the world...?"  
  
Richard thinks about it for a moment, staring at the camellia shrubs, before looking back up. "I think we'll repulse some people," he says honestly. "we'll probably be called all sorts of names and they're going to circle us for a bit, watching warily from the sides to see if we're any good or we're just a gimmick. I can't speak for how they'll decide because I have no idea what the complete album is going to sound like, but with all the talent in this band, I'm hoping for more positive interest than not. Somehow I don't think any of us are going to compromise with being _less_ weird than we already are, no matter how much some might treat us like dirt," Flake has paused with watering can in hand, listening intently. "and if we end up hating everything we do, looking back a year or two from now - then we'll sink, I suppose, what the hell, it's entirely possible that nothing comes out of this project. But I think we'll survive and go on to do great things. Be famous. Live it up a little."  
  
"Do you want fame?"  
  
"Yes. Of course. I've always wanted to be a rock star. Fame is _very much_ a part of what I'm aiming for."  
  
If they'd been less acquainted, Flake might not have hesitated to show contempt towards this for a single second; much of Richard's relief, though, the keyboardist frowns for only a second before nodding, appreciative of his honesty. "Fair enough. I'll be blunt, you and I are quite the opposite in what we want-"  
  
"- I figured as much-"  
  
"- but surely it's backwards to give up on a perfectly viable project and leave my friends behind just because I'm not into fame. I'm sure we'll see each other's point of view soon enough. Thanks for entertaining my questions, at least, I know where we both stand," Flake finishes up the last of the watering and steps back, admiring the shrubs. "aren't they marvellous? Have you and Till prepared that statement for Emu?"  
  
Richard nods. " _Ja._ If things go well, it's something we're all going to have to get used to, full-length interviews and all. All sorts of reporters swarming up to us. Chatting away to us in _Berlinerisch_ so fast that we can't make head or tail of what they're trying to ask. Totally looking forward to it."  
  
"What's wrong with _Berlinerisch_? I thought you liked it better in the city. _Eine gut gebratene Gans ist eine gute Gabe Gottes_ ," Flake demonstrates as he lines the camellias back in their proper positions, his 'g's coming out as soft 'j's instead, and Richard stifles a chuckle. The answer to that question is _nothing_ , really, he has nothing against the dialect. For sure it's not the most elegant or smooth accent in the world, distinctly speckled with a hint of impatience; there have been times that Richard felt, when the keyboardist was being particularly direct, that his tone came out as rapid and gratingly harsh. But what he sounds like is largely irrelevant to his character, similar to what Flake told Till a while ago, and the guitarist is happy enough to acknowledge that.  
  
"It amuses me, that's all."  
  
"You're a strange one," but the older man doesn't sound at all offended, his blue eyes almost mischievous as he dusts his hands and looks over. "that's just how we turned out, Paul and I. The good news is that you can head over to Hanover any time and revel in all the _Hochdeutsch_ that you want, that's _their_ dialect. That's as about as authentic as we can reasonably get, _weeste_?"  
  
The guitarist smirks. "I'll grant you that. What's the bad news?"  
  
Flake actually laughs out loud. " _Ach,_ Risch," he says; the guitarist throws him a startled glance, but before he can comment on his sudden usage of 'Risch', the older man continues. "you'd be in _Hanover_."  
  
\-----  
  
Spring is finally here. The twenty-sixth of March brings the first of the sweet breeze and true sunlight; the fields are loamy and green, and Richard delights in the newfound scents and warmth, leaning his head out of the window of his train compartment. Till's gone back to his Schwerin house for the weekend, and the guitarist's been invited as well. He no longer lives there, having settled in Berlin, but his formerly city-dwelling mother now looks after the place. It can only be a good thing. Richard loves that house, that place which provided several weeks' worth of safe refuge for him after the reunification, the place where he first discovered Till's vocal talents. It'd be a shame to lose such a precious memory. He arrives at the station around one o'clock in the afternoon and Till picks him up in his old Trabant, left over in Schwerin alongside other old memories, to be fondly revisited now and then.  
  
"How lovely of you to come," Till laughs as he gets out of the car, shielding his face from the sunlight, dark fringe falling across his eyes and lightly-stubbled face. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar and his sleeves are already rolled up with a slight speck of dirt on them; he's so perfectly a man of the countryside that Richard has to grin when he opens the door for the younger man, endeared by the image. "I set up your bedding and Mutti's joining us around dinnertime. Have you had anything to eat?"  
  
"Nothing on the train, but I'm not hungry," the older man tuts slightly but nods. Richard knows that as soon as they get into the house, he and Nele will be attempting to give him snacks throughout the day, eager to feed him up. "and how's Gitta doing?"  
  
"She's well. Are you buckled in?" he is. "she's in the city centre to do some shopping - dropped her off earlier - but she asked after you and sends you a hello. Pardon my clothes - I've been working on the garden almost from when I got here last night. Alongside other things."  
  
"What other things?"  
  
"New lyrics, of course. _Completely new_ ," Till waits until Richard has gotten the implications of that statement before he resumes, a playful smile on the corner of his mouth at the other's indignation. "now I know what you're going to say, _music comes first then lyrics_ \- but take pity on me, would you? What's a poor, struggling poet to _do_ except to collect all the products of his inspiration whenever they come?"  
  
"Pity! Who said this was anything about pity. It's harder to write five musical parts to fit than to alter one set of lyrics to the music," Richard complains. But what's done is done, and Till's someone who he simply can't deny very much to no matter how much he tries.  
  
The older man is only too fully aware of his weakness. "At least humour me and listen to it as a poem?"  
  
" _Nnh._ All right," Richard rolls his eyes in faux-exasperation. "... what's it about, then?"  
  
"Call it a Lolita complex," Till turns left and exits the road. "and the distillation of everything only obliquely hinted in that book. After reading that I spent so many days wondering what it might be like in a paedophile's or a rapist's head. What is so fundamentally _broken_ inside them that they do the things they do, what it is about them that destroys their humanity, and for the love of God what it is about some _other_ people who feel inclined to _defend_ them. The song's my best guess told in first person for extra effect. _Dein weißes Fleisch erregt mich so_ ," he quotes. "- _ich bin doch nur ein Gigolo... ja_. Stripping away all the pretense and showing the depravity in its full light, how miserable such lives are, how the abuser so often turns out to both abused themselves - and yet still manages to be totally removed from any hope of pity or redemption. That's what I was gunning for."  
  
Richard just looks at him. "Beastly," he says dryly. "utterly beastly. Disgusting. You shouldn't be allowed out on the streets."  
  
"Amen," the older man responds mock-tragically. After a moment of silence, they both look at each other before chuckling wryly amongst themselves; Till ruffles Richard's hair affectionately, and the guitarist lets him. "so that's a go-ahead, I assume."  
  
"Mm. We'll work it out after the weekend."  
  
They're at the village now. Richard leans his arm out of the window, peering out at the rural sights; the road is narrower here, still patchy with dirt from when the snow melted away, and it is pleasantly quiet. They drive past a flock of hens grazing in an open lawn and atop a small hill before stopping, Till having parked the Trabant near the old apple tree in the front yard. "Let yourself in," he says to Richard, handing him the keys, and the guitarist does so after getting out of the car and heading straight to the front door.  
  
The living room is large and richly furnished. It isn't particularly _clean_ \- never has been in all the times Richard has been here - but it's always been homely, warm and looking reassuringly lived-in. Today is no exception; the guitarist takes his shoes off and walks in, leaving the door open, and grins as he spies a blue futon couch next to the leather sofa, wasting no time in falling right into it. This is what Till meant by his 'bedding'; complete with blankets and a nice pillow, the futon couch makes for a comfortable night's sleep. At least, that is providing that he always adheres to this arrangement - he's crept in alongside Till in his bed sometimes, and the older man hasn't ever minded that. While he's thinking about all of this Till returns, locking the door behind him and kicking off his shoes. "Welcome home. Anything to eat or drink, Risch?"  
  
His prediction has been right. Richard grins lazily from the couch. "Not yet. Though maybe in an hour or two I wouldn't complain about a nice cup of chocolate."  
  
"You wouldn't complain about some _Kirschtorte_ either, I take it," the older man teases, and Richard plays along with an eager nod and laugh. Cherries are his favourite fruit. "in that case, come upstairs. I'll show you what I worked on."  
  
He agrees and they both go upstairs and into Till's room. The windows are open, giving them both a magnificent view of the garden; while the older man heads straight over to his desk, Richard admires the sight. It's too early in the year for the garden to be in full bloom - a lot of branches are still completely bare - but Richard can nevertheless smell the spring in the air, and what little greenery he can see is vivid and tender. A plump woodpigeon is pecking its way across the ground, scratching and lightly thumping its feet on the soil for worms. Till has sectioned a couple of new patches in the area, cording them off from the lawn; one is on the eastern side of the garden and lined elegantly around the edges with large smooth pebbles, and the other is close by, with several pots filled with soil spread out on the ground. "What are those for?" he asks, gesturing.  
  
Till comes over to look. "Oh, those. I decided to start a flower patch this year, _Mutti_ wants to brighten the house up a little. And some herbs, they're the ones in the pots - basil, thyme, some mint. Might throw in some valerian for the stray cats, too," he laughs. It takes years off his face. "I used to bring them inside, right up to the attic and curled by my feet. Drove my old man crazy. It'd be nice to see them play around the house."  
  
"I bet it would be. When are you getting the herbs?"  
  
"Already have them," the older man says, tapping lightly on his desk. He opens the desk drawer to reveal several packets of seeds, the front designs of which are shockingly familiar to Richard, before shutting it again and sitting back down. "all I need to do is to wait for the weather to warm up."  
  
".... Did Flake help you with buying them?"  
  
"Yes. That's his job. _Verdamnt._ I need a new pen."  
  
"His second job," Richard corrects. Till doesn't respond, but gives him a smile that seems to be halfway between mocking and complete sympathy. He's not sure how to feel about that. "and I suppose you're going to tell me that you traded something for them, too."  
  
The singer laughs warmly. Bartering was common before the Wall fell; whilst not quite as steeped in nostalgia for the Eastern Bloc as Flake is, Till is still very fond of the practice. "You know me so well, Risch. Yes and no - it's still a _business_ that he's working for, so a full bartering was out of the question, but he did give me a discount in exchange for a bag of sugar. Probably to feed his baking habit."  
  
Richard is tempted to add the possibility of Flake using it for flower food, but doesn't. He can't come across as knowing too many things about the keyboardist - no one in the band knows about the deal he has going with Flake, nor about his 'girlfriend'. While he is immensely thankful that Flake is the epitome of minding one's business in that regard, it does mean that he's on his own with explaining if certain details leak out, and he doesn't want to complicate matters. He carries on staring out of the window, and Till goes back to looking for the lyrics that he wrote; when he finds the pages, he tuts and deems his handwriting far too messy for Richard to decipher, and so tells him that he's going to rewrite them on a clean sheet of paper first. "Just because you're special."  
  
"You flatter me," Richard shakes his head and squeezes Till gently on the shoulder before taking on a more concerned tone. "... and I hate to ask it, but if you could collect and get everything you've worked on so far back down to Berlin after the weekend. Rewritten too, if they're not particularly clear. We'll need to sift through those as fast as we can."  
  
The older man raises an eyebrow. "Risch, we have until the end of summer to get this recorded, we're not in that much of a hurry."  
  
"But the faster we can come up with a full songlist the better! Why, you know already that they're going to end up rejecting some, we really need more than what'll _ever_ be selected for the album, the absolute cream of the crop if we want success-"  
  
"- It's going to be fine. You take this entirely too seriously, Richard."  
  
The guitarist sighs. " _Ach, Mensch!_ That might be the case, but can you honestly _blame_ me for it?"  
  
" _Blame_ is the wrong word. More like - whatever happens will happen, yes? Whether negative or positive, there's no point in letting either get to our heads. It's like what someone said about literary critique - ' _such things are either partisan opinions, which have become petrified and meaningless, or else they are just clever word-games_ ,'" Till pauses and glances at the ceiling with a 'hmm' before recalling the rest of the quote. "' _works of art are of an infinite solitude... no means of approach is as useless as criticism_ '. Mm. I think that was it."  
  
Richard raises his eyebrows, wryly impressed. Wise words to keep in mind when they produce their album for everyone to appreciate or point fingers at. "Great advice. I like it. Who said that?"  
  
"Rainer Maria Rilke," and there they are, those soft trilling 'r's; he does so adore Till's pleasant drawls, he makes a Saxon accent sound utterly irresistible. That's a feat not many have managed. "one of the greatest German poets, in my opinion, though I prefer Brecht myself. Did you know that Rilke died of blood poisoning after pricking his finger on a rose thorn?"  
  
"Oh."  
  
And the conversation's been swung back to Flake again. Or at least, it's easy for Richard to perceive it that way. Nothing in this conversation is exactly forcing him to talk about the keyboardist; he's just not particularly aware of this fact, having long since associated talk of flowers with Flake. "Kind of morbid, that. Should I tell Flake to watch out for that possibility?"  
  
"You can tell Flake anything you like. Though yes, I agree that it'd be a shame to lose him to something as seemingly-inconsequential as a rose thorn. I love him all too well for that," the singer laughs. "who else would both help us out and entertain us with his sullen demeanor and manner of speech?"  
  
"His manner of speech? What's so amusing about it?"  
  
"You've never thought about that? I just love the way he speaks! All that relentless _Berlinerisch_ and city slang. _'Sehr ge-il_ '," Till quotes, drawing out the syllables luxuriously, and chuckles to himself. "he's always saying that, about something being so _'geil'_. It'd be nice to remind him sometime of what that _really_ means."  
  
He licks his lips, and Richard feels slightly unsettled - and oddly enough, jealous. "He'd know. He is a _bona fide_ German like all of us."  
  
"Makes it even better if he _does_ and keeps on saying it anyway. He's marvellous. The words of 'Du Riechst So Gut' were there before Flake even decided that Rammstein was worth the trouble - but the more I think about it, the more he fits the bill for the lyrics. Maybe I should dedicate that one to him."  
  
Richard's response comes out a little more defensive than he intended. "And you're going to preface that discussion _how_ exactly? ' _Flake, that song about stalking I wrote a while ago, did you know that it reminds me of you because the way you talk turns me on_ '?"  
  
" _Nein._ That'd be upsetting to say the least, and I highly doubt that Flake's interests lie anywhere near me. Besides, I meant it more because of him being a florist, not because he unintentionally goes around saying that he's horny," he dots a perfectly-circular full stop on the end of the line, satisfied, before putting the page aside. Small dark, reflective pools of ink (still present atop several letters) gradually dry and fade into the page, and Richard watches with detached fascination. "who _wouldn't_ like a person who perpetually smells like heaven, I absolutely adore that about him. Always pleasant and unpredictable - it's always a different combination of flowers every time I see Flake. Inspiring. Quite gothic, too."  
  
The guitarist frowns. " _Gothic_?"  
  
" _Ja._ All flowers that produce scents are, in my opinion," seeing that the younger man wants an explanation, Till gives him a knowing glance before continuing. "how do I put this - well, what are flowers for, Risch?"  
  
Richard thinks for a moment. He should have paid more attention to botany in school. "... To look and smell nice?"  
  
"That's right," the older man actually nods and gestures for him to keep going; this is somewhat of a surprise, even Richard himself had been thinking that it was an obvious, careless answer. "more or less every flower is intended to be attractive to _something_. For what purpose, though?"  
  
"Reproduction?"  
  
" _Genau._ Reproduction. Propagating the species," Till nods. "flowers have it rough. If they're allowed to wilt without pollination, they haven't fulfilled their purpose - and that's their one chance gone like that. They can't just close up every night and open back up for months until they get lucky - no plant stays flowering forever regardless of season. But if the flower is pollinated, its entire _raison d'etre_ is gone. It then has to make way for fruit and the seeds after, _nein?_ So it goes. Either way, they're completely doomed. That's how nature is."  
  
"You could say the same for every other organism in the world," the guitarist says.  
  
" _Oh ja. Gewiss,_ " Till starts on a new page, going over the first letter twice just to make sure the ink is flowing. "we're all on _Earth_ , Richard, there's no cure for _that_."  
  
Profound words of wisdom. Richard makes another mental note of it, and inclines his head. "Keep going."  
  
"Nature aside," the older man nods back at him, scribbling frantically all the while. "what does a florist do?" this is a rhetorical question; he only pauses for a second before resuming his speech. "they harvest the flowers. Those then become part of an arrangement, which with any luck should be very pretty indeed. Despite having similar goals, though, the florist's and the flowers' interests are mutually exclusive, _ja?_ It's a cruel joke we play on them, keeping them in a sterile environment, feeding them sugar and water to keep them fresh for longer. Where they'll eventually wilt and die without reproducing, discarded carelessly later on. You can even say that the purpose humans have set for them _always_ overtakes the purpose they were made for. That's the true tragedy of it, one that follows every single one of our interactions with nature," he starts on the final line of the page. "but strangely enough, the longer cut flowers live on the _stronger_ their scent becomes, and that lingers on even when they dry out. As if they were struggling to project themselves into the world, with what remains of their feeble strength. If that's not dark and powerful I don't know _what_ is, Risch, and Flake is lucky enough to be constantly exposed to it. Do you understand what that means?"  
  
Richard is still. He can see Flake now, making his rounds through the shop, tidying up individual stems with his scissors. He's probably doing exactly that right now, lowering his head to sniff lightly at a particular arrangement and reveling in their scent before mercilessly snipping off a few leaves and flower heads. Survival of the prettiest, the strongest, the best.  
  
"Death," Till says, and smiles the softest, most morbid smile. Black ink drips from the nib and splatters on the corner of the page. "he smells of _death_. And how inspiring he is for it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **PAUL ONLY WANTED TO SPEND VALENTINE'S DAY WITH FLAKE WITHOUT THE HIDEOUS CONSUMERISM.**  
>  Too bad. Richard pretty much spent it with him instead.
> 
> This chapter was absolute _murder_ to write. It's seldom that I actually feel acute pain from writing something. I'm not actually a virtue ethicist so it wasn't like this was coming naturally to me or anything. By the time I'd filled in the virtue ethics discussion I was practically crying because a) it was late at night and I was so tired I could no longer see what I was writing and b) I was convinced no one would want to read this because _holy shit_ this is heavy stuff for a story about Richard and Flake in a flower shop.
> 
> This is it. This is what I'm using my education for. Forever, and ever, and ever.  
> My consolation is that this is probably the hardest and most overt philosophizing over and done with; the slash gets quite heavy from the next chapter onwards and quite frankly that's where most of the point lies. _We aren't even at the main topic of KLM yet._ Whether that's good or bad is up to you.
> 
> Some notes:
> 
> * 'Sehnsucht' is based off an [Orgasm Death Gimmick song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g15VCuks1BE); irrelevant to 'Herzeleid', yes, but Rammstein has stated that that 'Mutter' was so hard to make precisely because they had no old material left over by that point. It makes me think that there was quite a bit of recycling going on from 1995-97.  
> * Flake's response to the Problem of God is something I felt whilst reading John Milton's 'Paradise Lost' and what I feel about the Old Testament in general. It is a personal view of mine, not to be taken as canon.  
> * Flake leaving for vacation whilst recording Feeling B's third album is an event documented in 'Mix Mir Eine Drink' (pg. 213-214, 2010 edition), recalled with no love by Paul. Flake appears to have fled because he couldn't stand the noise of the bagpipes they were using. (It's a pretty bizarre part of the book.)  
> * The ' _eudaimonia_ ' sequence is a [central concept in Aristotelian virtue ethics](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eudaimonia); I'm not going to go into more detail now than I already have done, but I feel that it's a philosophy that sums up Flake's down-to-earth, non-excessive way of life. I'm also going by a fairly large assumption that philosophy wasn't included in East German curriculums; when you're running a dictatorship, the last thing you want to do is getting your citizens thinking.  
> * ' _Weeste_ ' is Berliner dialect for ' _weißt du?_ ', 'you know?'. Hanover is also considered to have the 'purest' German speakers by current standards. There seems to be also a perception that Hanover is one of the dullest cities in the country; WWII spared very little of Old Hanover, so that might be why it might seem lifeless compared to other cities.  
> * ' _Eine gut gebratene Gans ist eine gute Gabe Gottes_ ' is a popular German tongue-twister; rather fabulously, in the Berliner dialect, all of those 'g's will be softened to a 'y' sound!  
> * Till is actually wrong! Rainer Maria Rilke did _not_ die of blood poisoning; [he died of leukemia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rilke#Death_and_burial), although the rose thorn myth did spring up after his burial and it is still a popular one. The quote is slightly paraphrased but appears pretty much in that form in 'Letters to a Young Poet'.  
>  * ' _Geil_ ' is slang for 'cool', but can mean 'horny'.  
> * '[We're] all on Earth, there's no cure for that' is a Samuel Beckett reference, used in his one-act play '[Endgame](http://samuel-beckett.net/endgame.html)'. 
> 
> 4th chapter won't take long. This is also one of those chapters where it got so stupidly long that I had to cut it in half. A lot of it is written already.


	4. 04

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimer: I do not know any of the members of Rammstein, this is strictly a work of fiction and I do not profit from nor claim to represent true aspects of their lives in this story.**

**Kamelie Liebt Mich (04) - A Rammstein Fanfiction**  
  
Pairing: Richard/Flake  
  
\--------------------------------

It is April, the cruelest month. Richard has a dream.  
It's an odd dream, an erotic dream, one that he will wake up from with pounding heart and blushing cheeks; but then he'll look down at himself and see that he's not aroused in the slightest. It's not the average sexual fantasy. Months later he will still remember it, and refer to it as his _Liebestraum_ , but that's a while away yet.  
It is also a terrifying dream, but not in the way that he's used to experiencing.

He's in front of the florist's shop. Everything seems to be in greyscale - quite odd for him, he normally dreams in vibrant colour - though when he looks down at himself, he sees that he has retained colour to his appearence. He's completely alone. No one is passing by, there are no cars on the road (parked or otherwise), and he can hear absolutely nothing going on around him save for the a faint ringing in his ears. His footsteps ring too loud for his ears when he steps forwards and pushes the door open, seeing no other action that he can take. The door yields to his touch soundlessly - things are just as bland when he enters, though, none of the usual bright colours and intense scents striking him from the onset. In fact, the shop is totally empty in certain shelves and tables, and most of what is there appears to be dead or badly wilted.

He swallows heavily, the ringing in his ears growing louder with unease. He walks around the empty floor of the shop, then looks at the office door, which is shut. On a whim he walks up to it and flings the door open, and almost immediately reels back from the sudden assault of colour.

Flake is laid out on the floor of the office. His head is closest to the open doorway; his hair remains a golden-blond, and his skin is ghostly pale with just a hint of pink, setting him quite apart from the greyed-out environment that Richard's been seeing otherwise. His eyes are closed and he's splayed out in apparent sleep, head turned slightly to the side and one arm bent and resting next to it as if to mimic a pillow; but his other hand is in motion, lethargically toying with his surroundings. The office is full of flowers, white lilies and dark-red roses especially, their petals dropping and their nectar flowing out as the keyboardist sweeps his hand over them, their final essence soaking onto his skin. For some reason he's not wearing his glasses, nor much of anything at all, at least as far as Richard can see - he's partially buried under all of the flowers, it's hard to tell. What he's seeing is probably not a correct representation because he's never seen the keyboardist naked, but a nude body is a nude body regardless, and that means Richard starting to feel a not-quite-unwarranted flush steadily creeping up his loins and abdomen.

_Verdamnt._

Flake's eyelids twitch as if he heard Richard speak out loud; as the guitarist watches, he opens his eyes and stares right back at him. Blue meets blue, sapphire against steel, as the two men gaze at each other across the room. "You're just in time," Flake says first, his voice oddly soft and distorted, echoing in the room. "I'm in the middle of a funeral arrangement. This is my first time trying to figure one of them out."

Richard opens his mouth to respond. Several seconds go by, and he clutches at his throat; it appears that he himself has been deprived of character, for he no longer has a voice. Flake shows no signs of being perturbed by any of this. "And when I finish that, I'm immediately set to work on another," he continues, staring at the ceiling, plucking out a rose stem and twisting it mindlessly around his fingers. "there are so many to get through because so many people have _died_ , Risch. And _we_ will, too. Eventually."

He would like to protest this - death isn't Richard's favourite topic of conversation and any time his mind imposes on him a _memento mori,_ it's guaranteed to ruin his whole day - but as he can't speak, there's nothing much he can do about it. The door swings shut behind him as he approaches Flake, covering the tracks he left with a fresh shower of red and cream; the keyboardist's eyes follow his movements, although he doesn't speak and his expression remains blank. Richard walks around him, further into the room so that he's now by Flake's feet and gazing at his exposed skin - petals are still drifting down and sliding off his torso, white and leanly-sculpted like alabaster, not a single blemish on his skin, slim enough to see the outline of his ribs and yet never angular. He's beautiful, but at the same time Flake looks as if he's been nestled into a coffin, further confusing him.

The scent is getting thicker. It's actively getting harder to breathe.

Flake's eyes half-close, then flutter open again; he seems totally unaware of the conundrum that Richard is in, fixing him in a half pitying stare. "Come here."

The guitarist steps forwards. There is no disobeying him.  
Flake raises an arm, tangled slightly amidst the roses and lilies; they have thorns and they are clearly pressing into his pale skin, but he does not bleed. _What do you want me to do,_ he silently asks, mouthing the words - even so he doesn't think that he will be understood, and finds it most surprising when he is.

"Help a man out, will you?"

Richard thinks about it.  
Then he decides to try. Numbly, he lifts an arm and reaches for Flake's hand, seeking to enfold those slim pale fingers in his own. He has not felt the other's touch a full second when the world shakes; the vines beneath his feet rear up, and he crashes forwards on his knees at the same moment as the ceiling above them breaks in two.

That's the best way to put it, anyway. Before this there has been no sound in his world, save for his footsteps, the faint rustling of his clothes, Flake's speeches and maybe the gentle rasp of a leaf falling here and there. Most of the former were muted the moment he came in here, accustoming him to uncanny silence, so when the sudden unrelenting _drone_ (as if from a hive) fills his ears, he feels it as a thick pain drilling its way through the side of his head. He would cry out and clutch at his ears but he can't move, the vines have clung onto his limbs, their flowers crushed and entwined together against his skin, binding him to the ground. With the endless buzzing comes a shower of roses from above, stem-first, pricking left - right - near, far, everywhere. They stab him right through his clothing and he would bleed if he could, except that he seems to have lost the ability to. All he can do is to gasp for breath and stare down at Flake, and even though he's in agony he's not sure if he's trying to ask him for help.

Flake smiles. It's not one that Richard's seen from the older man in real life: very slight, the corner of his mouth subtly quirking upwards, dimpling his cheek playfully. He hasn't been reacting at all to any of this - but now he blinks once, eyes half-lidded and darkened slightly from wanting, before he closes his eyes and sinks further into the bed of petals.  
Richard tries to reach out, intending to pull the other's body free. But before he can do so, a strong wind sweeps past, causing walls of red-and-white petals to rear their head as if to consume them both. It is a menacing sight, but the surrounding aroma is now so thick and intoxicating that Richard can find no strength in himself to flee. When he looks down at Flake, the man looks completely unconcerned. Petals are raining down and covering wherever Richard is trying to focus on, though, brushing against their skin in a collective, sensual caress, their rustling growing louder and overloading his senses. If he gave in now, he would fall onto Flake, joining him as his strange bedfellow.

It's getting harder to see Flake.  
Richard feels as if they're locked within an hourglass, about to be sunken under the weight of something vast and yet slow; finished, it must nearly be finished. He looks down and sees that both his and Flake's lower halves have been buried under the flowers, so deep that he can't hope to dig them both out. The flowers are soft, almost so soft as to not actually provide any sensation at all, which would have left him feeling rather as if he were suspended in mid-air if not for Flake's body pressed close to his. There is no choice, he must hold on, he must cling to the other if he's to keep some semblance of himself, their bodies melding into one.

He shuts his eyes, inhales, falls forwards - and all the world drops dead.

\-----

Then he wakes.  
The radio is still playing, from when he first turned it on hours ago. Its volume is low.  
The frequency is set to the classics channel, playing Lange's _'Blumenlied'._

Flake is nowhere to be seen. Richard groans and sits up, before looking down at himself, half-anticipating that he'll have to get up and do some unexpected laundry. It is with a dull surprise that he finds that he is totally unaroused - though that makes things easier for him - and with that in mind, he sighs heavily and gets up, heading over to the window. He opens it with shaking hands and stares up at the sky. The moon has a halo around it; in a few hours it will begin to rain, these two events always seem to be inexplicably linked together.

Full moon. No stars.

He stays there until the night breeze is too much for him to handle. Then he shuts the window, tugs the curtains closed, and curls up in his bed while wondering what the hell is wrong with him.

"Why did it have to be _Flake_ out of all people," he moans faintly through his teeth. " _Christ_."

Richard has no idea where the imagery of Flake in the nude even came from. He hasn't ever thought of the keyboardist like that, at least never consciously - but he's also disturbed at how much he _liked_ what he saw. Flake isn't particularly handsome, his body is far from a work of art - for one, he's far too skinny - and the man himself hasn't been shy about admitting it. But during that dream, specifically towards the climax, Richard is sure that he glimpsed in Flake what he can only describe as an eerie, _ethereal_ beauty. He thinks of the blood-red rose petals covering Flake's body and cascading down his skin like silk, and isn't sure whether to be turned on or terrified.

It's all Till's fault, he decides. None of this would have happened if he hadn't made the connection between flowers and death. Richard could have happily gone through the rest of his life not having to speculate about that, and even worse, the strange-but-not-unpleasant warmth that came with seeing Flake is now steadily being replaced by the familiar, cold fear of his own mortality. Granted, the dream pales in comparison to being told that no one would care if he died and being stuck in an isolation cell until he began to doubt his continued existence, but the concept of death doesn't automatically become _less_ terrifying just because the Stasi didn't feature in this dream and Flake was very much alive all the way through. And that thought finally strikes the chord within him that usually comes with his more-conventional nightmares, inducing a sharp sense of panic inside him and making him reach out instinctively.

Sometimes he has consecutive nights of bad dreams - during those times he actually prepares a bottle of vodka next to his bedside, every night before sleeping, until the dreams go away. But he didn't see this coming. He knows that there is no alcohol in the house, and coffee isn't going to cut it, so pills it must be.

Richard reaches for the box and pushes four pills out onto his palm as per usual. The recommended dose is no more than six every twenty-four hours. Two in one go is the standard for genuine pains - but if he takes two more on top of _that_ , he feels a lovely calm sensation that lasts for several hours. If he still feels terrified after all that's over, he repeats it again. He swallows them all at once, dry, and sits there to wait for the feeling to dissipate. The clock reads four-fifteen; he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, exhales, then begins to focus on the rhythm of the second hand ticking to pass the time. He likes to pretend that the sounds are of different musical notes, mentally playing all the scales that he can think of and in however many octaves as he can imagine, and that usually makes the minutes fly by.

He stays like that for quite a while. Enough seconds have gone by for him to have played a whole song or three.  
He opens his eyes and stares down at his hands. They're still shaking. It's been over ten minutes, but he feels exactly the same as before; that sense of calm simply refuses to come.

_Well, isn't that just fantastic._

Richard is somewhat discontent, but to say that he's surprised or distressed would be a lie. He's anticipated this for a while now - the customary dose of painkillers isn't doing it for him any more. His habit is as small as they come, but it's still a frequent habit, and it has caught up with him.

He picks up the tabs of pills and fans them out on his palm, staring at them.  
It'd be so easy to just pop out another and swallow it. It wouldn't take five seconds. The full six and he might see a difference, and forget about this mildly-troubling development, lost in that calm, soothing, lovable sensation again. Then he ponders whether if there is even a point in doing that, and comes to the conclusion that at this present moment, there probably isn't one. In fact, he's not sure if there has ever been a point.

He sometimes has nightmares, yes, but so does everyone in the world. His nightmares are based off traumatic real-life events, but again, a lot of people suffer the same thing and they get by with means that aren't drugs. Richard is not the classic addict in that he pathologically seeks drugs or refuses to acknowledge alternative treatments - he thinks very highly of therapy - but he supposes that he hasn't stopped yet, not because his will is weak nor because he's ignorant of the possible consequences, but because he sees no point in stopping, either. He has never bought into the socialist, all-encompassing analogy of _everyone_ being a winner regardless of what they have or what they've done; he's always believed that the individual who is _happiest_ , whoever is feeling good without having to hurt anyone else, is their own winner and that's all that matters. And he feels absolutely _amazing_ when he's high or drunk, while simultaneously never having gotten anyone else hooked on them. He has never harmed anyone with his habit, and it is within his own autonomy to inflict this on himself, so why should he quit?

But at the same time he _knows_ that the pleasure he obtains from his self-medicating methods can only be vapid, caustic, and ultimately unsustainable. He _knows_ that it is not human nature to be able to feel good all the time. Why, he's not feeling exceptionally good right now even as he's contemplating all of this. He just can't bring himself to care _enough_ for that final push towards quitting, and he has too little assurance that therapy will make him happier than he is now. At best, it will only ever be - _probably_ \- at equilibirum with what he feels now.

Nevertheless, it is this self-awareness that's stopped him from sliding down the slippery slope so far; he's not sure for how long he can keep on reasoning himself out of doing stupid things, but right now he has decided that he doesn't want to pursue the high, and that should count for something.

Baby steps.

The drugs are still in his body, though, whether he's feeling the effects of them or not. Although he wouldn't have complained about two hours more, Richard decides that he has no chance of going back to sleep; so he gets up, makes the bed, turns off the radio, and takes a long hot shower instead. By the time the sun's up, he's gotten dressed and is relaxing as much as he is able to with a hot breakfast and orange juice. The radio is back on but now tuned to more practical matters, the news, droning on with the happenings of the world outside. It is indeed raining outside as he predicted, but birds are still singing outside and Berlin is cheerily bustling as ever. He takes some time to rearrange his now quite impressive collection of flowers, throwing away a couple that have wilted, and because he has so much variety aside from red roses, it's actually not as difficult as he feared to suppress the memories of the dream until he's done. Apart from the rain, it really is quite an ordinary day full of ordinary happenings, and nothing that Richard is doing would indicate anything otherwise.

His emotions, however, consist an entirely different story. It's one thing to be able to go through the motions of everyday life, quite another to _feel_ one's way through it; he can nod or tut slightly to the news and he can somewhat admire the quality of his cooking, but there is no sincerity in what he is doing. The dream hasn't entirely faded from his mind yet, and every time he lets his thoughts drift he flashes back to it and feels a tight clench in his chest that he can't get to go away with ease. Today being a rest day with no band practice at all, almost everyone has taken the opportunity to visit family or do other errands, so it's not as if Richard can seek solace in them either. _Olli_ might want some company, as he had a severe fight with his girlfriend recently and has been visibly upset about it for some days now; but the guitarist refrains from that option after more thought, knowing that he himself is in a vulnerable position. He just isn't at the height of empathy at the moment. Richard looks down at his hands again (just as pale as before), clenches them lightly into fists and back up, feeling no surge of emotion whatsoever - he is numb, utterly numb, blind to all but his own dread.

_Bother._

After washing up, he's left sitting there wondering what to do once more. He doesn't even feel like losing himself in music; that would still mean him remaining in the apartment, and he just wants to _get out_. But he has no set destination in hand, and doesn't want to be wandering aimlessly around Berlin either because _damn it all, Richard, that's just pitiful_. He would have defaulted to visiting Till any other day, perhaps, but the older man's spending a large part of the afternoon with Nele and Richard probably shouldn't intrude in good father-daughter time. That only really leaves Flake as someone he could 'visit', though for understandable reasons, he is hesitant.

_I don't want to see him and be reminded._

"Yes, well, I can't exactly blame him for showing up in _my_ dream. That says more about me than anything," he mumbles to himself, staring at the flowers from across the room.

_It's raining too much._

"I've got an umbrella and coat."

_But it's not necessary that Flake sees me today, right?  
Not like - absolutely?_

He manages to rationalize his way out of this conundrum until around half-one in the afternoon, when the force of the rain dies down into a murmur and the sun peeks through the clouds. With that sight comes the subsequent realization that if he doesn't go now, he may miss what might be only lull in the weather today. And God forbid, _anything_ is preferable to wasting an entire day on his own. "So what if he doesn't _need_ to see me," he tells himself stoically as he gets up and drapes his coat around his body, doing up the buttons. "... he might be expecting me anyway and - and it won't be right to make him wait."

It doesn't strike Richard immediately as odd that his meetings with Flake have become a kind of _obligation_. If Flake is acting his usual self and he can get over the memory of the dream, it's likely that he'll be fine, and that's mostly what he's concerned with as he leaves for the shop. It's just Richard's luck that the moment he arrives and walks in, he's greeted to the sight of Flake knocking over a soil-filled flowerpot and exclaiming a loud heartfelt _'Scheiße!_ ' in response, which is such a jarring sight that he begins laughing right there and then. The older man turns around, cheeks flushed and with a mortified expression on his face.

" _Gott_ ," he mutters, quickly casting his glance downwards and sweeping most of the soil back into the pot. "thank heavens it was you. I thought it might have been a customer."

"And _I'm_ not a customer most days?" teases Richard, but he follows it up with a friendly chuckle and a nod before moving further into the shop. Being so close to Flake has caused some of the tension in his chest to come back, but nowhere near as much as he feared; seeing him off-guard and in a state of schoolboyish guilt helps with that, too. "it's just as well you didn't have anything else in there, _ja?_ "

He gets another mortified glance and a half-shrug in return. Flake succeeds in returning all the soil to the pot, patting it down slightly and putting it safely away on a shelf. " _Da_ ," he says, and dusts his hands quickly, turning to face Richard. "you're a little early today. I wasn't expecting you until after four at the least. Do you need your rose urgently or something?"

The guitarist opens his mouth to answer, then shuts it again. "... I, um, can I get something that's not a rose today?"

" _Natürlich._ Look around."

The chime rings again as a couple enters. Flake goes to help them, though he adds a quick _'Entschuldigung'_ directed towards the younger man as he does so. This too is a new addition; Flake's never shown an urge to apologize for doing his job before in any context, after all. Richard is vaguely puzzled, but more flattered than anything as he heads in the opposite direction. Perhaps he has managed to become worthy of something to Flake. And for someone like Richard, to _genuinely_ feel this way is very reassuring.

The change in season has brightened up the shop significantly. Pink-purple orchids spill out of their pots, sweet pea flowers and hyacinths wink at him from their respective places on the display tables, and when he raises his head he sees small early-bird sunflowers bundled tightly together in a vase full of clear water. He quite likes sunflowers, considering them to be one of the cheeriest flowers in the world; he's also fairly confident that they mean something nice and innocuous, so Flake won't get suspicious about it if he goes for those. He bends his head and gazes at them for a while, lightly brushing his fingertip over their fractal interior and marvelling at the soft waxiness within, tickling against his hand, and smiles. Its perfect spiral pattern proves to be so mesmerizing that he stays there until his legs have gone rather numb; when he finally tears his gaze away and attempts to call Flake over for assistance, he slips slightly on the rain-scattered floor-

"Ah-"

\- and just barely manages to catch his balance before an arm is thrust out before him, catching him around the waist to carefully ease him back to a stable standing position. " _Pass auf,_ " Flake's voice murmurs in his ear, but his tone is quiet and even gently concerned rather than admonishing. "you don't want to fall over on solid stone, Risch. Trust me on that."

"L-like you've done that before," Richard replies shakily, managing a small, awkward laugh as he smoothes down his shirt; the older man lets him go and steps back, allowing him to regain his composure. But for a few seconds all Richard can think about is how Flake's grip was surprisingly strong and reassuring, how warm his hand was whilst pressed to the guitarist's stomach and of course the perfume soaked onto his clothes, and the tightness in his chest comes back with a vengeance. "... but... um, _vielen Dank_. I owe you one."

" _Bitte_ ," is Flake's answer, polite and simple, before he goes back to business. "I gather that you liked the look of those?"

Richard clears his throat, trying to hide his discomfort, before looking back at the flowers. "... Yeah. Quite a lot. I wasn't expecting sunflowers at this time of the year. She's not going to think me alarming if I give her one of those, right?"

"Certainly not. They're about as pure-hearted as they get," Flake leans over and smiles at them. Evidently he too is susceptible to their charms. "they just mean 'happiness'. You're in luck, I think we sell them at the cheapest price at the moment - they cost exactly the same as a rose right now, actually. I think I can let you get away with this one for free."

"Oh, it's not necessary-"

The keyboardist laughs and adjusts his gloves before sifting through the stems. "I insist. We already sell enough that a Mark makes very little difference. I'll start charging you for those when summer comes, maybe - when they get bigger and their prices go up."

It's probably the older man's anti-capitalist sentiment coming through. Flake could never be a man of strict business for long. But there's very little worth arguing over a Mark, and things have already worked out in his favour, so Richard nods and follows him to the counter to watch the now-familiar routine - drying the stem, wrapping it carefully with plastic or paper before finishing off with a small ribbon tied around it. "To get you through the rain," Flake even says, adding an extra layer of plastic before handing the flower over. Richard takes it with a thanks and twirls it lightly around his fingers, hesitating - his business is technically finished and now would be his cue to leave, but somehow he doesn't really want to. "what's the matter?"

"How, uh," then he hits upon a useful excuse. "how're the camellias doing?"

Flake blinks at the question, even ceasing the soft mindless tapping of his fingers on the counter. "The _camellias?_ They're indoors today. Couldn't let them get rained on. Why, were you worried about them?"

 _Improvise, Richard._ "Yeah. Pretty much. The weather's terrible today, it just reminded me - I haven't ever given much thought to where you keep them when it rains," he shrugs casually. "I'm not sure where _else_ I was thinking, now that you tell me. Maybe still outdoors and under the canopy?"

Thankfully, the keyboardist entertains the conversation exactly as seriously as Richard hoped. " _Nein,_ the canopy can't keep off the rain," he's saying. "camellias are quite hardy from what I've read, so I don't think I'd have done them harm from keeping them outside this once, but I'd still rather not risk it. Speaking of which, thank you for reminding me. They do need some water today."

"Ah. That's convenient, then."

"Very," Flake says, and ducks beneath the counter to head over to the back door. Richard blinks at him. "they do like rainwater the best. I just didn't want them to end up waterlogged from being left outside."

He opens the door and leaves for a moment, returning with a large blue bucket held in his hand; it's filled nearly to the brim with rainwater. Then he goes and fetches a watering can from the side, the very same one the younger man has seen him with sometimes. As Richard watches he tilts the bucket a little so that some of the rainwater trickles into the watering can - then he picks it up, comes back, heads into the office and gets to work on the camellias, checking the soil in the pots every so often with his fingers to see if they're not too moist or dry. "Can I help?" Richard asks on a sudden whim; he gets a nod in response, the older man pointing briefly at a spare watering can to indicate what he should do. Glad enough that he's been trusted with the task, he copies what the keyboardist did and heads into the office, towards the three other pots, tilting the can and making sure that the water trickles down evenly. "is this moist enough?"

"Let's see," and just like that, Flake puts down his own watering can and sets his gloves aside completely so that he can survey the other's work. He pats over the soil, pinching a little of it between his thumb and index fingers. "yes. That's just right. No more than that, I should think," he looks up and gives his rare, approving smile, and Richard's heart skips again. "you're quite good at this."

_"Danke."_

_"Bitte,"_ Flake inclines his head, and they both chuckle. "the other two as well, if you could, Risch."

Richard obliges, his heart lighter for having been thanked and appreciated. The trickle of water from his watering can makes barely any noise, and when he pats the soil in the second pot that he's watered he delights in the sweetish-musty smell of the rain rising from it. "Why rainwater, though?" he calls over his shoulder. "it's bizarrely specific."

"I'm not sure myself," Flake puts down his watering can and surveys the plants. "it's something that was recommended in a book. After all, rainwater is about as pure as it really gets in nature, _nein?_ Plants growing out there-" he gestures towards the door. "- in the outside world, they're all being watered by rain in the end."

"It works for them."

The keyboardist nods sagely and empties out his and Richard's watering cans back into the bucket, taking it outside. Richard follows. Wind whips at their clothes and rain streaks hard against their cheeks (and Flake's glasses, much to the guitarist's amusement); the younger man shivers and wraps his jacket tighter around himself, then glances at the keyboardist, who looks unconcerned and even glad about being soaked through. His sleeves are rolled up and everything. Richard says nothing about it, but evidently Flake has felt the other staring at him: "I do so love rain," the older man speaks up softly the moment they're inside, his shoes clicking lazily on the floor as he heads back towards the front of the shop. "November being my birthday and all, I'm sure it was raining the day I was born. I always liked it. They have the most enchanting songs."

"... Huh?"

"Oh, yes. When they streak against the windows," he taps very gently at the glass. "they _sing._ I hear musical notes everywhere, Risch, not just when instruments are involved - _every_ sound in the world has a pitch, something that would correspond to a certain tone if we put in the effort of cataloguing them all. Most cars nowadays beep in F, for example, though I've heard a few G's and G-sharps in the past. My favourite wineglass produces a perfect C when it's empty and I tap it on the side. The rain, well, it always depends on where it's falling - but the rhythm is always so fresh. Magnificent," he laughs at Richard's perplexed expression. "rainfall mostly sounds like a nice clear A on this particular window. Bright. Cheerful. Reminds me of spring."

"..."

He's never thought about it like that. The rain is, at best, _white noise_ for him. Most of the time, the gloomy days half-remembered from his youth (when he was running away all the time, sleeping on or under benches) and the few nights he spent in great terror while on the run makes him associate downpours with painful things best left forgotten; because of this, he initially finds himself unable to identify with such a radiant description of rain. But then, it doesn't have to be rain. That certainly isn't the end of it for Flake. _Everything_ \- the click of silver cutlery on a well-cleaned plate, that brief break of silence in-between static and station, the light thump of a tame housecat rolling onto its side - everything in the world participates in one long performance for him, whether it be soliloquy or song. Even talk, decidedly _not_ catalogued as musical in common sense logic, isn't exempt. The intonation of everyone's voices (and not just when Till's eyes soften, and his voice lifts in song) as they talk would be interpreted as music to him, each slight-edged accent and syllabic emphasis, his world painted in melodies that would almost be visible - if they lingered, just a little longer.

_I think of beautiful things, and go by what feels right._

No wonder ' _what is right'_ comes so naturally to him. His entire existence is surrounded by music, wherever he goes, as long as he's awake and listening. To Richard, a dedicated musician in his own right, that's the equivalent of being surrounded by beauty itself at all times. And they all have a kind of aesthetic responsibility to depict their unconventional world as they bear witness to it; what's not to like in the way Flake sees his?

"I'm aware it all sounds a bit _abstract_ ," the keyboardist interrupts his thoughts, sounding rather hesitant. He looks abashed, the younger man's silence having been too long for his liking; he probably thinks that he's confused Richard. "do you, ah, do you think that makes me odd?"

"Not at all," Richard says, and is surprised at how much he actually means it, contrary to what he might have felt some months ago. "it might explain your talent, quite likely. In various fields, not just music - _Gott,_ I'm bad at explaining this - but no, I don't think there is anything wrong with it. And there won't ever be, no matter what anyone says, right?"

_"Rische."_

_"... Wie bitte?"_

"Ah," Flake says with a quiet laugh and a shake of his head. "pardon. _Richtig._ "

Another example of his dialect. Instead of the confusion he usually feels during times like those, though, Richard actually feels slightly flattered. _Rische,_ he tries it out again in his mind, liking the sound of the word. It is reminiscent of his nickname, _Risch;_ in Flake's world, his name is apparently linked to _being correct, rightness_ , the way things _ought to be_ , and that's something to feel very happy about.

The tight feeling in his chest is gone.  
Somehow, during the past half-hour spent with Flake, he's been calmed down better than any chemical means could have provided. His medication-induced highs have never made him feel this way, never so down-to-earth and at peace; he would only chase the high until he was absolutely exhausted or he had work to do, and none of that has been _happiness_ in the way he actually would have liked. The dream and all the negative feelings that came with it are gone from his mind for the time being, and he feels at sync with the world again. He gazes out of the window, staring the rain rippling the pavement outside, and quietly lets out a sigh - releasing the very last of his tension. When he turns back to Flake, he is smiling.

This, too, is the correct way of things.

"Oh, I was meaning to tell you something," Flake is saying, laying his gloves on the side and flexing his pale hands. "I won't be at Till's on Tuesday morning - I was going to try coming as best as I could, but I don't think it's very likely. But I'll turn up at the studio in the evening. If that's all right with you. You’re the first I’ve told."

Richard would have balked at any other time, but seeing as Flake informed him _five days_ ahead - and being in the good mood that he is now - he nods and says that that would be acceptable. The keyboardist blinks at the unexpected response, reaching for his glasses to polish them again, almost as a reflex. "You're still going to be at the actual studio, that's what matters. Thanks for telling me. Is it something to do with the job? Or is it something personal?"

" _Nein_ , entirely job-related," and the glasses go back on.

"Oh?"

"We've been contacted to cater to a funeral, and a grand one. I've never attempted a funeral arrangement before - I don't even know how to go about this. Cream, peach and some dark red are the requested colours and I suppose it's just my luck that these go together, but they've gotten us to order so _many._ At least five wreaths with lilies and roses, several vases with the same arrangement for each... all three of us are working on - _Risch?_ Risch, are you listening?"

The guitarist doesn't say anything. He's too busy blankly staring into air.

\-----

That's all very well between the two musicians, and their role within the world of flowers, yes - but for those who are not within that sphere, things are different. Richard arrives at Till's house the next morning to find an absolutely heartbroken Olli sitting on the couch with his long legs curled to his chest, sniffling now and then and clutching helplessly at his bass. "She told him it was over," Paul tells him quietly, nothing but sympathy in his eyes. "mere hours ago, he said, poor thing."

"Oh," Richard murmurs, and sits down next to him, wanting to comfort him somehow. When he rests his hand gently upon the other's, Olli reciprocates the hold, though he still won't look back at any of them. "... do you need anything?"

"Mm."

"Not your fault, Olli. We're here for you."

The younger man ducks his head even more, his forehead now resting against his knees. "... Mm."

Richard sighs. All he can do is to pat the other's hand and stay with him; he is all too familiar with what his friend is going through, enough to know perfectly well that words won't help in this situation. At this point, with Olli in such a mood, the best thing to do is to offer silent understanding and maybe the assurance that he is there - and even then it might not be long before the younger man decides that he doesn't want Richard around. Richard himself isn't generally up for interacting with anybody post-breakups, not for a couple of days at least. Still, what a shame. Olli has been nothing but kind to this woman through the duration of their relationship. The guitarist doesn't know enough to pass strict judgement on the woman and now probably never will, but he _is_ certain that the younger man didn't deserve any of this.

But, again. Mere words.  
Olli probably knows all of that already. He might be young, and he might be a little naive at times, but he is neither foolish nor lacking in confidence. He may or may not need a reminder or two later, but right now, Richard is sure that he's not moping over his own perceived inadequacy. If that _had_ been all the younger man had been upset about, the guitarist might have had some luck talking him out of it, as adequacy is a kind of _social negotiation;_ there may be any combination of regret, loss, and a sense of betrayal in whatever Olli's actually trying to deal with at the moment, but _those_ are personal feelings that Richard has no say over.

"Here," Till comes into the room at this point, a cream-laden mug of hot chocolate in hand, mercifully cutting the guitarist's thoughts short. (He says hello to Richard with a smile and a nod for now.) There isn't quite room for him to sit down too, the bass being in the way, so he hands over the mug to Olli and sits cross-legged on the floor in front of them. "I _would_ offer you some whiskey but I know you haven't eaten anything today. Best not to drink on an empty stomach. Do you need anything else?"

Olli lifts his head, gazes at Till sadly, and takes the mug without a response. He still drinks like the schoolboy that he used to be, which was not a very long time ago - both hands cupped around the mug, his sips cautious and contemplative - and when he lowers the mug he wipes his mouth quickly, mindful of any spots of cream or froth despite his current state of mind. " _Nein, danke_ ," he says, making a proper reply for the first time in a while. His voice is already rather hoarse. "but I appreciate it. This is..." he gestures vaguely with the mug. "... this is nice."

" _Danke._ Everyone I've made it for says that - including Nele. She's becoming quite _refined_ in taste, if I say so myself," Till smiles. It lasts only a moment or two. "... now, seriously speaking - how are you feeling? Are you okay to carry on, or do you feel like something else?"

Olli shakes his head fiercely. "Not when we're working on an _album_ \- I'm not going to make everyone else suffer with me-"

But Richard is suddenly fascinated. Till is easily one of the quietest in the band whenever he's not working on a contribution of some sort, and even then he takes a cautious approach, wanting to discuss everything as early as possible. For him to suggest some kind of alternative out of the blue, something that nobody else seems to know about, is _very_ unusual. For all Richard knows, the older man probably means something along the lines of spending a relaxed couple of hours fine-tuning what they already have, but who knows? This might be new. " _Tut mir leid_ ," he interrupts, and waits until the two men nod at him to go ahead. "what do you mean by _something else?_ If it's important, we ought to make time for it."

Till and Olli share a knowing glance. He's hit the jackpot.

"Olli came up with a most pleasant bassline the other day. An attempt to score - what was it? _Die Zeit?_ - _ja_ , that one. The one we set aside. I didn't think the bassline suited that song at all, but damn me if I was going to let _that_ go to waste. All day it was playing in my head."

The bassist sips at his hot chocolate. He seems to have set his sorrow aside for the moment. "Till called me up and had me transcribe it, too. He was really into it. Good thing I hadn't forgotten, I had a lot on my mind at the moment..."

"He was kind enough to come and push it under the door, too, early in the morning," Till nods. "so that he wouldn't wake up Nele. But yes. I managed to write a little song around it, though it's woefully incomplete - don't worry, Risch, this isn't a mutiny in your hands," the older man smiles weakly at what that might have implied, though Richard suspects that there is little to no humour behind that gesture. "Olli hasn't even heard it or played for it. And I've only sung it to myself a couple of times, it's not in any way finished. He thought that we should put forth the idea straight away, and I thought it'd be best left off for when we'd made it through most of the album..."

That's all that really needs to be said. They both were wary of _his_ disapproval, it seems, and that only makes Richard more determined to hear them out. He briefly thinks of the progress they've made regarding the album - six songs as close to whole as they can get, and around ten that exist in various stages of completion, not counting bits of Till's poetry that might be set to music in some distant future. They were thinking of choosing four more out of all of that, but there is no consensus as to what those other songs ought to be. "Well, just knowing at least would be good. When the others come, would you mind telling them about it, too? I personally want to hear it and ideally sooner rather than later, but I'm not sure what everyone else's priorities are..."

He's in luck. As soon as he finishes that sentence, Flake and Schneider come in together, freshly-extinguished cigarettes still held between their fingers; something about having met in front of the U-Bahn entrance and having walked over together. Paul - who has been keeping an eye on the door all the while, only passively listening to the others' conversation - stands as if to greet Flake when the door opens, though when he sees the drummer he quietly sits back down, faking nonchalance. (Schneider does not acknowledge this in any way.) Within minutes they are all updated on the discussion, and after expressing their sympathies to Olli, the band collectively sits down and decides to give this new song a listen.

By this time, the bassist himself has finished the hot chocolate, and he looks much better than before; whether from the drink or the sheer amount of interest shown to his and Till's new creation, Richard doesn't know. Either could be an option. "I should just lead in, _ja?_ " he asks as he picks up his bass and runs his fingers over the strings in that old, familiar, expert way. Till nods as he stands to quickly fetch a couple of sheets from his room, rows of lyrics scribbled upon it, many words hastily crossed out and rewritten. He wasn't exaggerating just how _much_ of a rough draft this was.

"A song for the losses already in all of us, and those that are to come," he says as he sits down, fixing all of them in a gaze halfway between firm and melancholy. "don't expect too much yet, but I tell you, the words did come very quickly."

Schneider briefly raises one hand. "Do you have a title?"

"Not yet," Till responds as Olli begins to play, quietly at first, then louder with feeling. "for now... let's just call it... _'Seemann'_. From the lyrics."

 _Sailor._ No one gets to ask anything else before Till launches into the song.

_"Komm... in... mein Boot..."_

Flake blinks, the first to be startled at the man's unexpectedly soft and boyish voice.  
Richard for one is not at all surprised. He has heard it many times before, whenever he overheard the older man telling Nele a story, or the rare occasions when Till was passionately involved in recalling something from his youth.

_"Ein Sturm kommt auf, und es wird Nacht..."_

But he never thought that _that_ voice could be used for their music. Sure they still work with youth and all the pain and frustration that comes with it, but there's the aggressive, _currently involved_ kind of youth and then there's the sad-and-innocent kind. _Passive_ hurt, not retaliation. Sorrow before anger ever came into the fray.

"..."

It really is very bare-bones as a song.  
Olli's bassline is an excellent one, a mellow and even rather literary ostinato. If Richard had heard it before, he'd have insisted that they save it for a future song, too. No wonder Till was inspired by it. But did the bassist have further plans once he'd created it? Did he and Till sit together to think of the layers of music that still had to come in order to make it a complete piece, did they instinctively _know_ what the guitar work or the drumming should sound like in a song like this? Richard thinks not. Olli has his bassline and Till has his lyrics and everything else has been left open-ended; there is only the _possibility_ of their bandmates joining in, but no suggestion as to what _exactly_ they should be doing with it. Not the likeliest candidate for this album, for sure, not in this state of completion.

So why is it that Richard can nevertheless _hear_ what he has to do?  
Why is that his fingers are twitching in a desire to grip his guitar?  
Why does this hurt so much already, where has this unified look of understanding on all of their faces come from?

 _Jetzt stehst du da an der Laterne,_  
_hast Tränen im Gesicht;_  
 _das Abendlicht verjagt die Schatten,_  
 _die Zeit steht still - und es wird Herbst..._

Olli and Till intended this song to be about some kind of love. For the former, maybe it is even a commentary on his situation, though Till hasn't said that Olli had any input in the lyrics whatsoever. But what the guitarist thinks of isn't _love,_ at least not in a straightforward sense. _Sailor,_ Till had said. No - this song makes him think of Flake's rain, the sweet earthly melody that the man said it was - then of _his_ rain, milky-pale against a Hungarian streetlight as he crouched beneath it that one lonely night, staring down at a small photo held in cupped hands, thinking about the family he thought he would never see again. And in a way, that fear came true. He came back so changed from his experience that he could not regard _anything_ in the same light as he had done before - the family he has now isn't the family he remembers and his old life is now an abstract idea more than it ever was real to him.

It was not that long ago it happened, not even half a decade.  
It was not that long ago that _many_ of their grievances - not just Richard's, but of Till's and Paul's and all - occurred in the first place. They've got so many to _still_ live through as well, if things continue on in this manner, and they'll know it when it happens every time, for grief is a universal state of being. It's been that way for hundreds of years.

The _means_ of grief change, but the emotion never has. Time is a mere gap.

Paul leans into Flake's shoulder quietly. Flake lets him do so. Both of them remain silently staring ahead, not acknowledging each other beyond that.  
Richard watches them watch Till and feels an odd lurch deep inside that he can't explain. The strumming eventually comes to a halt; Till ends his last note with what sounds like a sigh, and only when his voice fades out completely does Olli lower his bass, his movements punctuated with a grace so gentle as to be tragic.

"In the album?" Richard speaks up after a moment, but the instant the words leave his lips he realizes how _inadequate_ they are in summing up what they've just heard. There is an agreeing murmur from all of them - _'yes' 'of course' 'that's a winner'_ and so on - but that dies down quickly as well. Then no one says anything for a very long time.

That is not to say that any of them looks particularly emotional, or are trying to figure out a way to express their feelings without breaking the silence. There is nothing too complicated there that _needs_ expressing. They are six down-to-earth Germans, proud creators of their own work, and most importantly they are all _honest_ people. It is simply the fact of the matter that people fall in love and out of love, that one day they exist and one day they die. It is simply the fact of the matter that Olli's relationship (and by extension all of theirs) or lack thereof are of no major significance within the expanse of the universe. There is nothing to overdramatize there, nothing to cry about, nothing quite as passionately illogical as a Romeo-and-Juliet scenario, nothing that matters in the long run - and because of that, they do not see the need to fabricate and express _what is not there_. Olli looks a little sad and far-away; Paul looks wistful; Schneider shares the younger guitarist's sense of wonder and slight unease (Richard thinks); Till is already looking critical, though unable to detract from the experience so soon after it happened. None of them have anything to add.  
Only Flake remains silent and unmoving, his expression largely the same as what he began with. It takes him longer to do anything at all.

First he shifts to the side just slightly, freeing up some room between his body and the arm of the sofa. He pauses there for a while, biting his bottom lip delicately, before pulling out a fresh pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket; with one deft flick of the wrist he pulls one out and places it between his lips, but when Till, Paul and Richard all reach for their lighters he stops them with a quick shake of the head. For once, Flake is making a _purposefully_ empty gesture, a far cry from his usual mindless tic of cleaning his glasses or tapping his fingers. This action precedes something _very_ important that he'd like to say or do.

They all wait.  
Flake gazes straight ahead, a most perplexed expression on his face, the cigarette still held in his mouth. Once or twice he looks as if he's chewing lightly on the filter. Then he takes out the cigarette and immediately asks: "So _did_ they reach the bottom?"

Till blinks in confusion. "... Who? Of where?"

"The water," the keyboardist insists. "your persona. Did they reach the bottom. In peace."

This is on the surface level nonsensical, and from the way Flake has retained that strange look on his face, it's not clear whether he himself has any particular response in mind. But for Till at least, something clicks; a new light dawns in his eyes, if only for a moment. He puts the sheets of paper down and regards the younger man with a conflicted expression, looking as if there _might_ be an answer lingering on the tip of his tongue. Till is a man of cryptic words and he's only too happy to explain them once asked, but Richard knows the facade; many of those explanations are _standardized_ , drawing only on common themes and references most people are familiar with, interwoven with the apology that he isn't as good a writer as the old masters were. With him, the true answers lie elsewhere.

"Yes, _he_ did," Till finally says. "I'm sure of it. It was the only way it could have ended."

"Was it?"

" _Ja._ I would know. But it's better left as a story."

Flake surveys the older man over the top of his glasses at that, saying nothing else. Till returns the gaze without a flinch or a hint of discomfort. It is as if the rest of the room has ceased to exist during this little interaction; nobody else knows what to say, but it's not out of a lack of understanding, and besides they don't really want to be the one to end this moment. Even Olli seems to have forgotten his prior sorrow, his usual inquisitive look back in his eyes.

The one who begins something has the responsibility to finish it, too. Flake is the one who withdraws first in the end. " _Good!_ " he finally says, then gets up, silently excusing himself to the kitchen to get a drink; whatever was between he and Till dissipates like that, and slowly conversation resumes in the room. The music sheets are set on the table, the edges neatly tucked along a straight line, but no one discusses what just happened or even the song they've just heard. Call it a recovery period or whatever name one might put to it, but they won't return to that topic for the day, though they'll all be thinking about it plenty after they're off practice. Paul and Olli are leaning over their instruments and talking in low voices (probably about something they saw on the news, or other such minor things); Schneider heads silently to the balcony to light up a smoke; Till stays where he is for the time being, suddenly looking rather worn out, looking as if he'd like to go and join the drummer. For a second he meets Richard's glance, but the guitarist looks away first, and he understands.

It's nothing personal against Till or Flake or anyone else. Richard just hasn't had the presence of mind to take this liberty before, to really consider the innermost metaphysics of a friend or bandmate's world. He wouldn't have thought it but he finds himself fascinated by the keyboardist's approach - the blunt, almost senselessly literal approach, one metaphor clashing against the extension of itself - and how separate and unearthly Flake's views on the world are, or what he thinks love is, or what it does. The only other person he's been interested in, in this precise manner, has been Till - and he felt that years ago. _That_ fascination is still going strong. He cannot even begin to imagine what it might be like to delve into Flake's way of thought, but he knows one thing: it'll keep him occupied for a very long time.

Whatever his thought process might be is beyond words, probably, but Richard would nevertheless like to understand.

_If only Flake would let me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. Remember the time I began this story, progressed a little on it, then proceeded to drop off the Rammstein fanfic scene apparently for good?  
> It's been a while. I'm back. I don't know how long for, but I am back for the duration of this tale. A lot of things happened in the meantime - I had several fandoms since then, gained and lost a lot of things - and in a way, losing the person who I was dedicating this to originally affected me so much that I dropped this story.
> 
> Well, no more. I can finish this for the sake of others. I was fortunate - so much of this story had been written out and planned, enough that nearly two years later I am still quite refreshed on how everything was meant to play out. Maybe it really was meant to be finished after all.
> 
> * This is probably a very obvious reference - Richard's dream takes influence from _American Beauty_. I think the rose-falling scene is iconic enough to be recognizable there!  
>  * '[He shuts his] eyes and all the world drops dead' is a reference to Sylvia Plath's 'Mad Girl's Love Song'.  
> * [_Blumenlied_ , op. 39, or 'Flower Song'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hnRD-5R3PTQ), is one of the most recognizable pieces by the composer Gustav Lange. Sadly I think he is not known for much else.  
> * A large part of _Kamelie Liebt Mich_ 's latter parts are aimed at the idea of _trauma_ \- flowers as we enjoy them, at least from the florist's perspective, necessarily involve violence from our part. (Till was talking about this last chapter, too.) And I mentioned in a footnote in Chapter 1 that this takes place just over half a decade after Richard's run-in with the Stasi, too. It's not often talked about in historical terms - but there was a lot of pain, whether subtle or blatant or intensely personal, involved with the creation of _Herzeleid_. I wanted to reflect that faithfully in the story. Richard's trauma is really only the tip of the iceberg.  
>  * Richard is taking ibuprofen. No more than six 200mg pills every 24 hrs is the modern European recommended amount for that dosage. As far as NSAIDs go, ibuprofen isn't going to mess you up drastically, but all bets are off when alcohol gets involved - and oh boy, does it ever in the background of this story.  
> * Sunflowers do mean 'happiness' all around, I believe.  
> * It is recommended that camellias be given rainwater based on what they love - it's not explained in the fic, but this is because camellias prefer more acidity than less. Rainwater is free of most minerals and is the correct pH for most plants. And this is especially a problem in Berlin - [where the tap water has always been 'hard'!](http://www.bwb.de/content/language2/html/1127.php)  
> * Most modern cars do beep in F. I actually lack a reference as to whether this was the case in 1994, but I will go with it for the time being.  
> * ' _Richtig_ ' pronounced fast comes out often as ' _Rische_ ' or something along those lines. _Berlinerish_ reflects this charming hastiness.  
>  * ' _Die Zeit_ ' would later go on to become ' _Das Alte Leid_ '.  
> * All Richard took and kept with him during his flight from East Berlin were pictures of his family.


End file.
